


all the colors of the world

by viviandarkbloom



Series: cities of illumination [1]
Category: Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 17:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14753382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viviandarkbloom/pseuds/viviandarkbloom
Summary: This story is goddamn old. It may have been the first fanfic I ever wrote, and has since been revised/shortened from the original version that appeared on the internets 500 years ago. I haven't proofed it recently, so apologies for any typos, grammar errors, bad sentences, and the like.It is also part of a very, very long series. I'm sorry and/or you're welcome.No copyright infringement intended, no profit gained.





	1. the bard brat

 

…It sometimes seemed to me then that I was unhappy, but now I know that I was always happy, that that unhappiness was one of the colors of happiness.

—Vladimir Nabokov, _The Gift_

_ Prelude With Fedora _

_Corfu, 1942_

 

Melinda Pappas wasn't sure if she was in love with Janice Covington, or Janice Covington's hat.

 

It was a tough decision. At dawn over the Ionian Sea, she watched Janice pace the length of the dock. They awaited a ship that would take them to Gibraltar, where they would get on either a sub or another boat to England (that wasn't decided yet; it was all in the hands of Janice's nefarious contacts, and whatever money the two of them could put in said hands), and then, hopefully, an airplane home to America.

 

But the transport was late. It made the archaeologist nervous. As she stalked, in full view of the dockhands and fishermen, she beat her fedora against her thigh, keeping time with every step she took. Her jaw was clenched in a painful-looking fashion and her lips formed a tight, thin line.

 

Loving the hat, the fedora, would be uncomplicated. A simple, pure love for a simple, stained article of clothing that had a dashing little bullet hole in it. Fetishism, it would be called. _It's safer, of course,_ Mel thought. _Although it's debatable what people would find more distasteful: loving a person you're not supposed to love, or a thing. Of course, being American, we do have love affairs with objects, it seems. Like cars._ Although _that_ particular love she never understood. And Janice Covington loved things—old things buried in the ground, that is. _Which does not bode well for me. Unless she falls in love with me when I'm dead._

 

Once again she considered Janice, who stomped along the worn dock. It was true that Mel's entire life was different somehow, because of this woman. This complicated pile of nerves, brains, bluster, and seething anger. _Too complex, too much trouble. She would be too much trouble. I don't even know if she possesses those inclinations. It's ridiculous to even entertain the notion._

 

With an unexpected outburst of playfulness, Janice stopped and flipped the hat high into the air. Arms out, eyes tilted heavenward, she hovered gracefully, an earthbound acrobat on an imaginary high wire, and managed to have the fedora land squarely on her head. She pulled it low, over her eyes, stuffed her hands in the pockets of her khakis, and proceeded to imitate Charlie Chaplin's Tramp with impressive accuracy. The fishermen applauded. The archaeologist rewarded them with a florid bow.

 

 _All right,_ Mel conceded. It wasn't just the hat that was driving her crazy. She sighed, and stared out at the sea, which rippled with color. At certain angles—where the sun struck with blunt force—it was bone white, but its currents and eddies rippled with blues, greens, golds, and a surprising thread of lavender; it hinted at black depths wherever the sunlight failed to reach. She lost herself in it.

 

Until Janice Covington blocked the view with her impatient, khaki-clad body. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she demanded, as if staring into the sea were some sort of crime.

 

"Uhhh..."

 

"You aren't sick or somethin', are ya?"

 

The Southern translator pulled feebly at the sleeves of her too-short sweater, shrunk in the sudden rainstorm that had drenched them yesterday. Under Janice's scrutiny she suddenly felt big, clumsy, awkward, the wallflower at the cotillion, her neverending role in life, it appeared. "Huh? Um, no, Dr. Covington—"

 

An impatient sigh. "I told you to call me Janice. It's weird, it's like you do it sometimes, then you forget."

 

 _Forget? I want to forget you._ "—n-no, Janice, I'm fine. Really."

 

"You look absolutely bug-eyed. What the hell's wrong with you?" Janice repeated. She squinted at Mel. "I wish we hadn't been in that rain yesterday. You're gonna get sick, I just know it."

 

The outburst was almost maternal; Mel parted her lips in surprise, but said nothing. _You worry about me! If only a little bit._

 

Janice seemed to realize she had been caught displaying something other than belligerent anger or stoic indifference. The look of concern metamorphosed into a scowl—although it was, without a doubt, the loveliest scowl that Mel had ever seen. "Just don't get sick, or I swear to Christ I'll sell you to white slavers."

 

Mel squeaked in alarm, then managed to recover nicely: "If I'm ill, I doubt I'll be very appealing to the slave trade."

 

Her retort took Janice by surprise, and earned a slight grin from Dr. Covington. "Yeah. I guess I'll have to keep you around." Now on guard against any more emotion seeping out, she glanced at her boots, then walked away.

 

_So how do you tell a woman you've known for less than two weeks that you're madly in love with her?_

 

 

  1. _Nothing a Little Whiskey Couldn't Fix_



 

_June, 1943_

_Charlotte, North Carolina_

 

Mel sat on the expansive porch of her home, eagerly awaiting the arrival of her guest, due any minute now, from the train station. As she fanned herself in her wicker chair, the Reverend Dupree, his wife, and two of their young daughters emerged onto their porch, to Melinda's left. "Good afternoon, Melinda," called the young Reverend. "Care to join us for lemonade?"

 

"Why, that's very kind of you, Reverend," drawled Mel, "but I am expecting someone shortly." _And your two little brats look like they'd sooner drink poison than let me have any of their lemonade_ , she thought. The wife looked a little relieved as well; Melinda, beautiful, rich, aristocratic, was nonetheless viewed as terribly eccentric by the upper crust of Charlotte, due to her single status, living alone in her late father's home, her seeming lack of interest in men, and her scholarly inclinations.

 

The Reverend, however, believed that there was no harm in trying. Especially with such an _attractive_ woman...he blushed as Melinda smiled at him. "I understand completely. Well, if your guest does arrive soon, perhaps you can bring her over for a nice cool drink."

 

 _Maybe if you offer scotch on the rocks, she'd like that,_ Mel thought. She was about to respond when she saw a yellow cab swerve violently onto their street and careen down the block, halting dramatically in front of her home. From their respective porches the Duprees and Mel watched the drama unfold. They saw the driver turn in his seat, red-faced, to yell something at his passenger. His door swung open and he stomped out. The rider in the back seat was, the Reverend and his family thought, a young man dressed in a rather rugged fashion: a rumpled fedora and a brown leather jacket. As the cabbie opened his trunk, a back door swung open and a loud female voice could be heard: "It's not my damn fault you got lost!" The figure emerged. The Duprees emitted a collective gasp as the man pulled off the fedora, revealing a mass of red-gold hair and a decidedly feminine face. Mel smiled at the sight, her heart even skipping a beat, as Janice Covington slapped the old fedora against her khaki pants.

 

It was one of those charming habits the young archaeologist had. Like the way she rubbed her jaw while pensive, the way her hands rode on her hips, as she would survey a dig, a landscape, or a bottle of gin. _Not to mention those eyes, those lips...._

 

The cabbie ungraciously threw a large leather bag on the street. "Son of a BITCH!" roared Janice.

 

...and then there was the swearing. _Charming?_ Mel cast a sideways glance at her neighbors. She could _feel_ them go pale with shock. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? Be careful with that!" the fair-haired woman shouted.

 

"Too late now," sniped the cabbie. He stood defiantly, arms crossed. Angrily, she put her hat back on.

 

"Too late for a decent tip as well," retorted the archaeologist. She tossed a dime at him.

 

It ricocheted off his barrel chest and fell to the street. He shook his head. "Thanks," he sneered.

 

"GO TO HELL!" she yelled as he climbed in the cab and drove off. She grabbed the bag off the street and sauntered up the walk, shaking off her bad mood. Catching sight of Mel, and oblivious to the shocked Duprees, she grinned.

 

Climbing up on the porch, Janice dropped the bag, tilted up her fedora, and bellowed in her crassest Yankee fashion, "Well sweetheart, glad to see me?"

 

She was. But then she glanced over at her neighbors, flummoxed. Mrs. Dupree had tried to shelter the children behind her abundant hips. The Reverend's face was the reddest she'd ever seen, even redder than when he first saw her in a bathing suit so many years ago.

 

Mel remembered very little of her mother, who died when she was very young. However, one thin memory clung to her like gossamer: her mother, smelling of perfume, lowering her lovely face to Mel and saying, "Honey, the best advice I can give you, as a Southern lady, is this: When in doubt, faint."

 

And, on that hot June day, under the scrutiny of her neighbors and a woman she was, she had to finally admit it to herself, having the _most_ illicit thoughts about, she finally took her mother's advice. The last thing she saw was Janice's face. _Thanks, mama,_ she thought, as the world went dim.

 

_*****_

 

Without opening her eyes Mel could tell that she was lying on the divan in her drawing room; the soft velvet fabric that crunched gently underneath her was a dead giveaway. Tentatively, she opened her eyes, and saw Janice peering anxiously down at her. A panoply of emotions crossed the archaeologist's face: the anxiety melted into concern, then relief, then a wide, relaxed grin. _Oh Lord, I'm going to faint again,_ Mel thought. That beautiful face, lit even brighter by a smile, was more than she could bear.

 

It was now a year since they had first met. Letters, mysterious courier packages, and late night phone calls had bridged the gap, but they had not seen one another since that initial meeting in Macedonia. Nonetheless, to Mel's consternation, Janice Covington remained a dominating presence in her mind. She found herself thinking of Janice whenever her mind was not engaged in other matters; and even as she continued her work on the Xena Scrolls, she could barely wait to tell Janice of her new discoveries. Often, sending off a letter to Janice was the first thing she did as her work progressed and she found out more about Xena, Gabrielle, and their adventures.

 

And it was just a month ago that Janice suggested a visit. She had discovered another scroll, she said, and wanted Mel to work on it. So the archaeologist packed a bag and came down South.

 

And now, Janice smiled down upon her. "Well, that was a hell of a how-do-you-do," she growled pleasantly. Then Mel heard the Reverend's voice behind Janice: "Melinda, honey, are you all right? Your— _friend_ and I managed to carry you in, my goodness, you are a big girl, I always forget..."

 

"How could you forget? She's almost six goddamn feet tall!" Janice threw the comment over her shoulder, then quickly leaned down and whispered to Mel: "It was mostly me who carried you, believe it or not." Mel grew dizzy again at the closeness of the beautiful young woman, and the thought that she had been cradled in Janice's arms... _oh, I always miss the good parts! Who fell asleep at the end of_ Casablanca _? Me._

 

The Reverend clucked audibly. "Really, Miss Covington! The language!"

 

"It's Dr. Covington, Mr. Dupree."

 

" _Reverend_ Dupree."

 

"Get the point?" she shot back.

 

Obviously, two had introduced themselves at some juncture during Mel's unconsciousness. And Janice, resplendent with fedora and wisecracks, was out-Bogarting Bogart.

 

The Reverend frowned. Ignoring her, he reached down and patted Mel's hand. "Melinda, if you need anything, please do call. My wife has sent over some lemonade, that should cool you off a bit, and maybe you should take a cold bath."

 

Mel's eyes had wandered down Janice's khaki shirtfront, and lingered on the unbuttoned expanse that revealed soft skin and tempting cleavage. She cleared her sandpapered throat. "Why...yes, Reverend, I think a cold bath would be in order right about now," she said hoarsely.

 

"Wonderful! I could draw a bath for you, if you like!" the Reverend offered too enthusiastically.

 

Janice glowered at him. _My, she really doesn't like him,_ Mel thought. _He means well, but he's just a bit silly. But then Janice doesn't suffer fools very well._

 

"Er, that's quite all right, Reverend, I'm sure Janice can handle it," Mel replied.

 

Crestfallen, the reverend offered a goodbye, and headed home.

 

"Jesus, I thought he'd never leave! He's got it bad for you, Mel." Janice reached for a cigar. Popping it in her mouth, she was about to light up when she looked at Mel and noticed that her friend was sweaty, disheveled, and still a bit green around the gills. Reluctantly she tucked away the stogie for a later time. "C'mon, let's get you something to drink, then I'll prepare a bath for you. How's that sound?" Mel nodded, sitting up. "Hey, don't get up," Janice said, rising from her kneeling position on the floor and heading to the kitchen. "I'll bring it to you."

 

Mel slumped back and sighed. So far concealing her feelings for her friend wasn't progressing very well. She had fainted the moment she laid eyes on Janice again, and her stomach fluttered at the thought of the woman merely preparing a bath for her. Yet Janice's friendship meant too much to her; Janice was strong, independent, and smart. And they had the same interests. Mel had always longed to have a friend like that, let alone a lover, a companion... _no_. She could not reveal this attraction. The risk was too great. Just because her father had understood didn't mean that Janice would. Her father was an exceptional man, well traveled and urbane, who truly understood differences among people and cultures. Who never judged.

 

*****

 

She remembered that day he brought her into his study. She was 20 and home for Christmas, from Vanderbilt. Joshua Davis, her steady beau from high school, scion of one of Charlotte's oldest and most respected families, had proposed to her the day before. He looked dapper and handsome in his army uniform; he was already a captain. As a rare snow fell, they galloped around the town square in an old-fashioned, horse-drawn carriage and he asked her to marry him. She said no, keeping her eyes fixed on the delicate flakes that swirled around them, and the puffs of icy breath emanating from their mouths. "No, Joshua...I'm not ready yet."

 

"When, Melinda?" he urged her gently.

 

"I don't know." They rode home in silence. He helped her out of the carriage after it drew in front of her home, kissed her hand, and drove off.

 

It was a small town—worse yet, a _college_ town. Gossip was its lifeblood, and news of her rejection of Joshua spread quickly. And a day later, when her father called her into his study, she was certain he was going to reprimand her, in his usual gentle yet stern fashion. But it was strange, she recalled. He was awkward, almost shy.

 

"I take it you turned down the young man?" he asked softly.

 

She nodded.

 

He, too, nodded, as if he had expected it. He stood behind his desk. Then he paced a little as he spoke once again. "Melinda, love is a strange thing." he stated flatly. Idly he plucked a large black volume from one of the shelves that lined one wall from ceiling to floor. His large hands cradled it gently.

 

She frowned and fidgeted, wondering where he would go with this.

 

He cleared his throat. "We never know whom we shall love, or what or why someone attracts us. This can be a frightening thing for many people. And when people are frightened, they react blindly with emotion, which prevents them from truly understanding the differences among people..." he sighed.

 

"Daddy?" she asked tentatively, unease gripping her.

 

He smiled, and, as usual, it seemed tinged with a melancholy. "I know I'm rambling, my dear. I'm sorry." He placed the large book in front of her and tapped the cover. "Perhaps this might explain things...of course, you may have already read it; you are always reading so much." He chuckled.

 

She did not have her glasses on, and she just barely made out the name on the spine: Havelock Ellis.

 

Her father placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it, a quick kiss from his lips bussed the top of her head. "Know this, Melinda," his voice deep above her, "no matter what, I shall always love you very much." Another squeeze, then, "Goodnight." He left her alone.

 

She spent the night reading through the book; it sprawled in her lap as she sat by the fire in his study. As dawn stripped away the night, this book stripped away her own blindness, and she burned with recognition.

 

When the morning came, her father, in his robe, handed her a cup of fresh coffee as she awakened from a light sleep. Wordlessly she took it from him, and as she drank it greedily, as if she spent a night wandering in a desert, her eyes never left his.

 

His eyes were as blue as hers. They waited, expectantly.

 

She put the cup down with a _clack_. "How did you know?" she blurted.

 

Again, his sad, wise smile. "You are my daughter. I know you. And I've seen you in the world. You know many men, in fact you have many male friends, but their beauty did not move you. I could see it in your eyes. At a party, when you would walk into a room with Joshua Davis, all the women would be looking at him, the most handsome young man in Charlotte. Except you."

 

"I was looking at Muffy Crassdale," she whispered.

 

He rolled his eyes. "My dear, you can do better than that. I'm sure that girl hates you, you took Joshua away from her." He sipped his own coffee. "Besides, I am certain that blonde hair of hers is _quite_ artificial."

 

"Daddy!" she squeaked, scandalized. It was inconceivable. She was sitting here with her father, talking about women— _in that way_.

 

For his part, he laughed. "This is funny, isn't it?" He gave his daughter a wry, loving look. "Think of it as something else we have in common, Melinda: An appreciation of women."

 

*****

 

She stood up, wobbly on long legs like a newborn colt, and headed to the kitchen. She wondered what her father would have thought about Janice Covington. _Very attractive, my dear, she has potential, but don't you think she should be cleaned up a bit?_ She mimicked his suave voice in her head.

 

 _What to do about Janice_...she sighed as she entered the kitchen, and saw Janice peering suspiciously into the pitcher of lemonade that the Reverend had left. "The Bible Brats brought this over. D'ya think it's safe to drink?"

 

In spite of herself Mel giggled. "You are such a heathen." Janice grinned, and placed ice from the freezer into two glass tumblers, then poured the lemonade. "How are you feeling?" she asked, shoving a glass toward Mel.

 

Mel sat down and drank the cool beverage with a sigh of approval. "Mmmmm...much better. Try some, it's good."

 

Janice grunted, then took a sip. "Not bad. Of course, we may be dead in minutes..."

 

Again, Mel laughed, and Janice beamed with delight at making her friend laugh. Then Mel felt the intense scrutiny of the green eyes on her, though, and in a panic she gulped her drink.

 

"Sure you're all right?" the archaeologist asked again.

 

"Yes, yes. I'm fine. Why don't you tell me a little about this scroll."

 

Janice downed the remainder of the lemonade, wishing that she had some vodka to liven it up a bit. "This one was sent to me by a friend in the Greek consulate. He smuggled it out. Didn't want it to fall into the Nazis' hands." Her thumb stroked the cool side of the glass, and once again she allowed her eyes to skitter over Mel's long, languorous form; the Southern beauty, with her tousled hair, flushed face, and rumpled white shirt, looked as if she had been ravished. _She must be as beautiful as Xena once was_ , Janice thought. A sigh escaped her; she might as well deliver the disappointing news—well, the news was disappointing to _her_ ; she knew Mel would appreciate any find, any scroll relating to Xena—her scholar's mind was that fine and inquisitive. "Well, this scroll doesn't detail any adventures of Xena, as far as I can tell. In fact, she seems kinda secondary. It involves Gabrielle and the Amazons in some sort of way."

 

"Ah!" Mel murmured with approval. "Wonderful! I wanted to know more about Gabrielle's link with the Amazons; the scrolls we have only mention them in passing. It's odd. If Gabrielle was an Amazon, why was she born in Poteidaia and raised by a non-Amazon family?" Mel rubbed her hands together with relish and anticipation. "We know so little of Gabrielle's background—"

 

"Well, why should we?" Janice interjected. "She was just a bard. Just a tagalong." This earned a dark glare from Mel. "Come on, I'll admit she was a talented storyteller and writer, but that's about the extent of it. She was basically Xena's Boswell. Nothing more."

 

"You neglect the fact that Boswell was an intriguing man himself, Janice," retorted Mel.

 

The archaeologist rolled her eyes.

 

"You remember what Xena said to you. In the tomb," Mel prompted.

 

"Of course. But she was just saying that to make me feel better—"

 

Mel slammed her glass on the table. The gesture startled both of them. "Stop that right now," Mel commanded, her voice dropping an octave. She leaned forward in her chair. Tiny hairs rose on the back of Janice's neck at her this thrilling, low voice, this voice that her friend had never used before. "Gabrielle meant a hell of a lot to Xena. More than you know." Then, the brooding expression lifting from Mel's face, she settled back in chair, blinking.

 

"Jesus Christ, Mel..."

 

"I'm sorry about that outburst. I don't know what got into me." _Or do I?_ Mel thought.

 

"It's okay. But you... _swore_. You actually used a curse word."

 

Mel blinked. "Did I?"

 

"Lemonade's loosening your tongue, eh?" Janice teased. "Son of a bitch!" she swore gently, with admiration.

 

*****

 

After dinner that evening, Mel settled down in the study that was once her father's and now hers. She sat at the huge mahogany desk, the lamp bathing both the scroll and sprawling books with a golden light. Janice glanced at the bookshelves, while rolling around the ice in a glass of scotch. She picked a well-thumbed volume of Ovid's verse and sat in the leather chair near the dormant fireplace. But soon her mind drifted; it had been a long day, and she had been in transit for most of it. As a result she fell into a light, dreamless sleep, that ended abruptly when she heard a soft yet distinct "oh my!"

 

Janice's lolling head snapped to attention. "What? What is it?" She looked at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter past eleven, and she had been asleep for three hours, much to her chagrin. "Jesus, Mel, why did you let me sleep so long?" She looked at Mel, who was staring intently, open-mouthed, at the document before her. Instinct kicked in, and excitedly Janice joined her friend at the desk.

 

Mel looked nervously at the expectant young woman. For a frantic, delusional moment she thought she could lie to her friend about what she found; she did not know how Janice would react to it.

 

"Well?"

 

"Janice, I don't know how accurate my translation is."

 

"Don't give me that bullshit. You're damned good, and you know it."

 

"You're very kind, but really, give me a few more days—"

 

"You've had over _four_ hours now, you should at least have the gist of it!" Janice growled impatiently. Part of her was queasy with worry; Mel didn't want to tell her something. "Out with it!" she commanded.

 

Mel took a deep breath to calm the butterflies in her stomach. "This scroll begins with a love poem. It's rather...explicit."

 

Janice cocked an eyebrow. "Gabrielle wrote poetry too, eh? And dirty stuff at that—"

 

"Erotica," corrected Mel haughtily.

 

"Oh great," she muttered sarcastically. "So I'm _half_ -impressed. Probably to some stupid teenager, right? What's it called, 'Ode to a Pimply-Faced Stableboy'?"

 

"Er, actually no, Janice. It's addressed to a woman." Mel paused as Janice's face registered surprise. "And I think the woman is Xena."

 

"Huh? What makes you think that?"

 

A blush flooded Mel's normally pale countenance. "Can't you just take my word for it?" she pleaded.

 

"I would _love_ to do that, but what kind of professional would I be if I did so?" Janice planted her hands on her hips. "Just give me a line or two, for starters."

 

"Oh!" the Southerner exclaimed, frustrated. She bent over her notebook and attempted to rewrite the first lines in a neater hand, then presented it to Janice. "J-just read it yourself. All right?"

 

 _Uh-oh, the stammer_ , thought Janice. She squinted at the hasty translation that begged to be teased out of the Medusa-like tangle of Mel's handwriting. "'Xena...shoelaces'?" she read aloud, puzzled. _Help. My translator needs a translator._

 

Mel gave a martyr-like sigh. "Not quite, my good Dr. Covington. Try again."

 

"Okay. 'Xena...' " she trailed off again. Holding the notebook, Janice paced in front of the fireplace. She shook her head, and glanced at Mel. "Penmanship?"

 

"D minus," glumly replied the Southerner. They stared at each other for a moment— both of them pleased, fascinated, and more than slightly scared at how easily, how naturally they fell into this verbal shorthand.

 

"Uh…" Janice ignored the chill gallivanting up her spine. She focused once again on the notebook.

 

Mel could only ignore this, given the state of mute panic—bordering on apoplexy—that she found herself in. Surreptitiously, she jabbed herself in the thigh with her fountain pen, hoping it would produce an effect similar to a bracing, brain-jarring slap across the face.

 

"...sit..." Janice was saying. Then comprehension illuminated her face. "Oh! 'Xena, sit on my face.'"

 

Dead silence.

 

"Jee-zus, _that's_ poetry?"

 

Somehow, Mel marveled, the philistine known as Covington chose to focus on aesthetics.

 

"That's _lousy_. It's like that Modernist stuff, you know? Damn, give me a good old-fashioned 'Charge of the Light Brigade' any day of the week."

 

 _Good God!_ the Southerner wailed to herself. _Doesn't she know what it means?_ Mel caught a breath, and her dark brows drooped in confusion. _Do I know what it means?_

 

However, a semantic coup de grace occurred, and the translator took happy note of Janice's dropping jaw. Under different circumstances, Mel might have relished the look of shock on the otherwise jaded countenance. "Oh."

 

She shuddered with delight, which Janice took for revulsion.

 

“Uh, you’re sure—“

 

“Yes.”

 

“It could be some sort of expression—“

 

“Janice, literally or figuratively—I mean, the meaning cannot _possibly_ be taken another way.”

 

“Maybe Gabrielle was cold.”

 

This earned an incredulous stare from the translator.

 

“Or suicidal?” Janice offered lamely.

 

“N-no, I don’t think there’s any other way around it,” Mel stammered softly.

 

 _Why, why, did I have to be related to Gabrielle? Bard my ass—this was really her idea of oral tradition. Frigging horny brat._ Awkwardly, Janice rubbed her chin. While searching for something to say, she watched as Mel squirmed in her seat and nervously bunched together the hem of her skirt with her long fingers. She barely managed to stomp down the obvious salacious offer that sprung to mind. _Whaddya say, sweetheart? It was good enough for our ancestors—_ she coughed, the study echoing with her noisy dramatics, then cleared her throat. "Um. What about the rest? How far did you get?" Janice managed to ask.

 

"Not very. From there Gabrielle writes of a trip to the Amazons. For a royal ceremony." Mel saw that her words fell on deaf ears; Janice was eerily quiet. "Janice? Are you all right?"

 

Janice ended whatever reverie she was in. "Uh, yeah. Guess I'm more tired than I realized. It was a long trip, and now this..."

 

"Janice!" Mel cried.

 

The small blonde jumped at the urgent tone, almost knocking herself unconscious as her head jerked up and narrowly missed a collision with the mantelpiece.

 

Mel desperately wanted to right things again, to make Janice as ease. It was as if her own secret desire for her friend had seeped into the poem, into the words she had nervously translated for the archaeologist. And Janice must be shocked to know that her ancestor was a deviant... _like me_ , Mel thought miserably.

 

"Huh?" Janice replied.

 

"You know," she stammered, "homosexuality was er, much more common and tolerated in ancient societies" — _I can't believe I'm saying this_ —"and after all, Gabrielle was a young woman, living a lonely life on the road, she was very impressionable, or so I've gathered from my readings of her scrolls thus far."

 

And Xena, obviously, was incredibly dense. _Today I languished around camp nude. Then massaged her after breakfast—still nude. She grunted like a pig contented in swill. But nothing. Nothing!_

 

Janice smiled weakly. "Come on, Mel, I don't need to rehash History 101, or Psych 101 for that matter." She stood up, stretching. "I think I'll go to bed, if you don't mind."

 

"Of course not. The guestroom is the third bedroom on the left, at the end of the hall. Alice"—the housekeeper, who had laid out the simple cold dinner for them—"took your things up earlier. There should be fresh towels on the bed."

 

"Great." She paused. "Thanks for everything, Mel. Good night."

 

"Good night," Mel replied. She watched the young woman saunter gracefully out of the study and up the stairs, the fiery red-gold head bowed, almost as if in prayer. "Sweet dreams," she added in a whisper.

 

Upstairs, Janice closed the door and virtually collapsed against it in exhaustion, "Jesus Christ," she moaned to herself, "these damned feelings are _genetic_." Again in her mind she pictured Mel, lovely in the lamp light, silently working, lips moving, saying nothing. She shook off a tingle of desire. "That goddamned bard brat."

 

*****

 

Before she opened her eyes, Janice smelled coffee. Real coffee, the good stuff she could find abroad, or at least in a good coffee shop in New York before the war. _Maybe I'm dreaming_ , she thought. _Only one way to find out_. She rose, washed up, dressed, and descended the staircase.

 

The rich smell grew stronger as she approached the kitchen. Mel, to her astonishment, was frying eggs. The coffee awaited her on the table. She sighed with pleasure.

 

This caught her hostess's attention, and Mel turned to her, startled. "Goodness Janice, I thought you'd never get up," she said by way of greeting.

 

"Good morning to you too," Janice replied sarcastically. Then she softened. "Mel, that smells like real coffee."

 

"It is."

 

"Where the hell did you get it?"

 

The raven-haired beauty shot her a mischievous grin. "I have my sources."

 

"I can accept that." She looked around the clean, orderly kitchen. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

 

"No, just sit down. I'm about ready here."

 

They settled down to a meal of eggs, buttermilk biscuits, coffee, and juice. Mel smiled at the small woman's appetite. "Would you like a tour of Charlotte today?" Mel asked.

 

"No," Janice replied through a mouthful of egg. "I want you to work on that damn scroll."

 

"Ah, I don't know why I even bothered to ask." Mel grinned again. There was a companionable silence as Janice made short work of the biscuits on her plate. Mel decided to risk the mood as she tentatively asked, "So I trust this means you're feeling...better about the content of the scroll thus far?"

 

Janice's busily chewing jaw stopped abruptly as she tried to formulate an answer. She decided to take the diplomatic approach and avoid either outright condemnation of the bard's lustful thoughts for her best friend, or praise of her admirable writing skills ( _That pornographic, puerile crap was poetry?_ )—not to mention Gabrielle's good taste, for Xena of Amphipolis was frequently described by her contemporaries as a great beauty. "I'm not a prude, Mel. I can handle it. I'd like to see where the kid goes with it."

 

"Goes with what?"

 

"You know, see how she deals with these feelings. Does she tell the Warrior Princess? Does Xena find out somehow? Is it even _remotely_ possible that Xena may have felt the same way?"

 

Mel could have sworn she detected a tinge of hope in the archaeologist's voice. "I think it's...possible," she ventured nervously. "Even though Xena had a child, and many of her affairs with men were legendary, that does not preclude bisexuality on her part."

 

Janice snorted. "No, probably not. She was on the road a long time, it must have been difficult for her to find someone for...pleasure at times. So having the bard as a bedwarmer may have been a last resort."

 

Mel scowled. " ‘Last resort'?" she asked. "Why do you always think so little of Gabrielle?"

 

Having finished her breakfast, Janice pushed herself back from the table. "Force of habit," she replied, plucking a cigar from her breast pocket and clenching it between her teeth. "Since I think of myself in the same way." As she searched her pockets for a light, Mel snatched the stogie from under her nose.

 

"Janice Covington, you are a big pain in the ass." Janice stared at her, Mel instinctively clamped her hand over her mouth, then removed it. "See, you made me swear again! Janice, I'm going to prove you wrong about Gabrielle. And about yourself too." She stood up, determined, and started to clear the breakfast dishes. With a glance that was admiring, fearful, and sweet, Janice stood up and helped her.

 

*****

 

"Your father was certainly a well-read man," Janice commented as she completed yet another scan of the books in the study.

 

"Mmmm," Mel murmured. Her dark head was bent intently over the ancient parchment.

 

Janice shook her head. The woman was so thoroughly engrossed in the scroll, she could not even muster the barest of her Southern civilities. "Yep...let's see here...everything from Kant and Kirkegaard to _Gone with the Wind_ and the Kama Sutra," Janice stole a quick look at her friend to see if Mel noticed the spurious volumes—the latter two—that her imagination had inserted into the collection. No response. She let her fingers trail over the leather volumes, riding the rough ridges and indentations, until her fingers stopped suddenly: Havelock Ellis. Kraft-Ebing. _Oh my_. _Dr. Pappas knew his stuff. Wonder if he would've been able to diagnose me on the spot?_

 

Janice cast yet another glance at Mel. _Jesus Christ, has Mel  read this stuff?_ She wondered. _And if so, has she figured me all out? I am sort of a walking bulldagger at times_ — _the clothes, the cigar_ — _God, I have to get out of here for a while._ Unwilling to break Mel's concentration, Janice opted to exit quietly and go for a walk.

 

She got no further than the door's threshold when she heard Mel call her name softly.

 

"Yes, Mel?"

 

"Where are you going?" The scholar removed her glasses, her blue eyes touching Janice like a flame.

 

"Just out for a walk. Get some air. Do you mind?"

 

"No, of course not." She put on the glasses once again. Janice turned to leave.

 

"Janice?" The voice sounded darker, silkier.

 

"Yes?" The young archaeologist froze, her hand lingering on the doorknob.

 

"My daddy hated _Gone With the Wind_ and he kept his copy of the Kama Sutra so well hidden I didn't find it until last year."

 

Without a word, Janice and her blush walked out.

 

*****

 

Gradations of gold stippled the old books of the study. Mel removed her glasses and let her eyes rest on the burnished orange-yellow sunset at the window, which reminded of Janice's hair. Suddenly she realized how late it was. And where on earth was Janice anyway? She was anxious to update the archaeologist on the turn that the scroll was taking. She stood up and stretched.

 

She wandered into the kitchen, where Alice, her part-time housekeeper, was folding laundry.

 

"Alice, I seem to have misplaced my house guest," she said, hoping the joke would cover the concern in her voice.

 

The slender black woman smiled, but raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I haven't seen her, Miss Melinda. I got in at my usual time, and no one was here."

 

Mel frowned.

 

"I'm sure she'll be fine, Miss Melinda. It's about dinner time, and she doesn't seem like the type who would miss a meal."

 

Mel chuckled. "How could you tell?"

 

"Why, all of those eggs are gone! You barely go through half a dozen a month. That was the last of the your ration coupons too."

 

"I guess Miss Janice will just have to eat powdered sugar and bread, then," Mel said.

 

Alice giggled. "Well, you will have fried chicken for dinner. Left over from last night. Shall I set it out for the two of you?"

 

"No Alice, I'll take care of it later. Thank you." She walked through the darkening house to the porch; it was actually brighter outside, as the gold, scarlet, and violet flooded the sky. Mel wrapped her arms about her. _How many of these sunsets did Xena witness?_ she wondered. Were the skies of the ancient world just as beautiful? Or even more so?

 

A reply came from inside her, a voice she had known all her life, yet she never knew its origin until last year in Macedonia. _Yes. It was breathtaking, More than this._

 

Then a sudden memory: _I am watching the sunset. I hear her come up behind me, I know it is her…I would know the tread of her walk anywhere. She has walked beside me for years. And would continue to do so for the rest of her life. Without a word she wraps her arms around me, I feel her face, her hair, nuzzled in between my shoulders._ For a brilliant moment Mel saw it and felt it all: heavy armor on her body, a breeze tingling her upper arms, the multi-hued sunset, the muscular arms around her waist, the soft skin and golden down on those arms, the finely tapered wrists and elegant hands. _I turn away from the sunset, for she is more to me than all the colors of the world._

 

As the moment dissipated, Mel felt a stunned emptiness. That beautiful intensity was gone. She had never felt anything like it. _My God. They loved each other._

 

Shakily, she sat down. _I can't faint again, now, can I?_ She took deep breaths, and managed to control her racing heart, until she caught a glimpse of Janice sauntering up the street. She had a sweet, boyish gait, confident and quick. It seemed jauntier than usual. Her fedora was tilted back on her head, and she still wore that leather jacket, even though it was about 65 humid degrees outside. As she passed Mrs. Pellier, Mel's neighbor from down the street, she doffed her hat. The woman stopped dead in her tracks and looked at Janice as if she were from another planet. Which, in a way, she was. Mel laughed.

 

As Janice continued on her way, she looked toward the house and saw Mel. It was her turn to stop walking. For a moment she looked apprehensive, as if she didn't want to approach Mel. But then she grinned sheepishly, and the smile remained plastered on her face as she mounted the stairs of the house. "Hi, you waitin' for me?" the young woman asked breathlessly, swaying slightly.

 

Mel smiled. Something about Janice seemed different. Looser. And not as gruff and tough. "Sort of," she responded wistfully. _Like all my life._

 

"Sorry. Didn't think I would be gone so long." She sat down on a porch step, leaning against a column.

 

"Where have you been?" Mel asked.

 

"Oh, just touring your fair city. "

 

"Really Janice, you hardly seem a tourist type."

 

"Well, all right. I was just walkin’ around. "

 

Mel stood up from the wicker chair she was seated in, and joined Janice on the step. She was close enough to the archaeologist to catch her rich scent: the leather, the cigar smoke, a faint tinge of sweat…and alcohol.

 

Mel arched an eyebrow. "Just walking around, hmmm?"

 

"Yeah." Janice shrugged with an overstudied nonchalance.

 

"Didn't happen to walk into a bar by any chance, did you?"

 

Janice knew she was a poor liar. Nonetheless it was her nature to give most things her best shot. "A bar, you say? You mean like a pub? A café? A bistro? A tavern?"

 

"Let's just say a place where they serve alcohol."

 

"I mean, I may have been in a place, indeed, I may have been _inside_ , in a sheltered environment, but whether or not it served alcohol, well, it's academic…"

 

"Janice Covington, you are the world's most inept liar. Why can't you just admit you had a couple drinks?"

 

Janice flushed. "What makes you think it was a couple?"

 

With a chuckle Mel stood up and extended her hand downward. "Come on, let's have dinner." When the young archaeologist grasped her hand she felt _it_ again, that warm rush of emotion that she felt minutes ago, reliving the memories of a woman long dead. The last time they had touched each other was after arriving in the U.S. from Macedonia; Mel did not count the fainting spell she'd had at Janice's arrival yesterday, since she was not conscious when the young woman virtually carried her inside. But she remembered the awkward hug at the airport—meant as a friendly parting embrace—where she had thrown her long arms around Janice and half expected the scruffy young woman to squirm and growl like an untamed animal. Instead she had experienced Janice's arms around her in a fierce squeeze. And it had taken every bit of her resources to resist kissing Janice in front of hundreds of strangers.

 

Once Janice stood up Mel did not relinquish her hand. Janice did not seem to mind; but her green eyes remained focused on her boots as she said, "Okay. I'm starving."

 

 _Don’t look at those boots, look at me!_ Mel bit her tongue. Blushing furiously, and still holding Janice's hand, she led the way inside.

 

*****

 

_I must be in love._

 

Mel reached this conclusion after dinner.

 

 _So I let this woman eat all the chicken, and God knows the next time I'll get chicken, there_ is _a war going on, and I let her into Daddy's liquor cabinet, where she promptly opened the last bottle of whiskey, the one that Daddy had been saving for a special occasion, and now she's talking about something I have the least amount of interest in, and she refuses to talk about what is foremost on my mind, which is the scroll. If I may quote Miss Covington herself, "Son of a bitch."_

 

"That bastard had an arm. Nailed him right at the plate. I was so upset I cried," Janice was saying, when Mel returned her focus to the conversation.

 

"You _cried_ over baseball?" Mel was incredulous.

 

Janice merely grinned. She knocked back another glass of whiskey. Mel eyed the Bushmills bottle sitting next to her guest. It was already half-empty.

 

"If I may ask, how much did you have to drink at this bar?" Mel inquired, with a note of concern.

 

Janice shrugged. "Dunno. Just a couple beers."

 

"Where did you go?" Mel asked, only mildly curious. She noticed the young woman's gaze suddenly clouded over and took up a rather intense, preoccupied study of her footwear. Janice tried to keep the defensiveness out of her tone when she said, "Why? Are you an expert on bars, Mel? Have you ever seen the inside of one?"

 

"Why, yes I have. Not here, though. A beau from Vanderbilt once took me to one in Nashville. A 'dive,' I believe he called it." Mel concluded defiantly. _See if you can shock me, Janice Covington!_

 

The archaeologist's emerald eyes glittered drunkenly. "A beau, eh?"

 

Mel flicked her wrist dismissively. "Actually, he was hardly that. He liked me, but the feeling wasn't mutual. He tried to have his way with me after we left this bar. Right in the car!" she said indignantly.

 

Janice smirked. Yes, she could believe that. How many times had she tried to do the same with many a young lady?

 

"You haven't answered my question, though," the dark-haired woman continued. Her curiosity became aroused as soon as she saw how evasive Janice was about it.

 

"I just don't see why it matters. They're all the same." It was escalating into a battle of will.

 

"I suppose this is true enough. And if that is the case, then all the more reason for you to have no problem telling me where you went." Mel bit her lip. She sounded like a jealous lover, but she couldn't help herself.

 

Silence. Janice gripped the whiskey bottle by the neck and poured herself another. _Dammit,_ she thought grimly. _One more for the road, cause she'll surely kick my sorry ass outta here. I could lie, but she deserves more than that._ She drained her glass, the familiar burning sensation giving her courage. _Let's get it over with_. She sighed, and stared into the empty glass. "I'm sure you've heard of a little place called the Gilded Lily," she said in a low voice. Part of her hoped Mel hadn't. The other part hoped she did.

 

Mel's blue eyes widened. She was horrified and thrilled all at once. A speakeasy in the 1920s, the Gilded Lily took on a more secretive and exclusive persona once the decade ended. It became known in polite circles as a meeting place for homosexuals and the most elite of call girls. And call boys. Nobody in their right mind would be caught dead there, although many from the highest strata of Charlotte and surrounding areas knew of it, and frequented it. It was rumored that a certain senator was a steady customer.

 

"Oh my," Mel murmured. "Janice, how did…you know about the Gilded Lily?"

 

"How do you think, Mel?" Janice retorted. "Word gets around when you move in the circles I do. You find out where all the queers meet. There's one in every town. Trust me, I know."

 

The tall woman was silent as dozens of thoughts raced through her.

 

Janice slammed the glass down. "Well, I should go."

 

"Go where? To sleep?" Mel asked innocently.

 

"No, I'll leave now. It's still early enough, I might be able to catch the night train up north."

 

"Don't be ridiculous," Mel said. She didn't know what else to say, as her mind processed this interesting new fact. _She's like me. Could she feel the same way? The way she looks at me sometimes—am I crazy to think she might?_

 

"Who's being ridiculous? I just assume you don't want a pervert in your house," Janice's tone was defiant, but her voice was also tight and strangled. "I'm sorry, Mel. Now you see why I didn't want to tell you." She stood up and started to walk quickly into the house. Mel stood up too, and snagged Janice's arm with a surprisingly strong grip.

 

"Wait a minute!" Mel said angrily. "I want you to tell me—" Janice tried to pull away with a sudden jerk of her arm. Mel yanked back even harder, and the slingshot effect caused the archaeologist to be flung against her body. Instinctively her arms wrapped around Janice, who had placed a hand upon her shoulder.

 

Janice looked at her. She saw fear, of course; she was afraid herself. And desire, she was certain. "Tell you what?" Janice whispered.

 

"Tell me everything," Mel replied softly. She leaned in and kissed Janice very gently, upon the lips. She wasn't sure what she meant by that, but she knew the knowledge she sought was imparted when Janice returned the kiss in full force.

 

 

  1. _The Angelic Contemplation_



 

_January, 1944_

 

Mel sat, feeling strangely exhausted, in the vacant lounge of the Plaza Hotel in New York. She was waiting to meet Jack Kleinman, the man whom she first met, along with Janice, on that fateful day almost two years ago. _That day changed everything for me…just as a night last summer did,_ Mel thought.

 

She had not heard from Janice since the night that they spent together, over six months ago, when they had consummated their relationship. She had awakened alone in her bed. Her search of the house yielded no Janice, no note, merely her somber housekeeper. "I got here just as she was leaving," Alice had told Mel. "She was waiting outside for the cab to come. She had called for one, she said, to take her to the train station."

 

"How did she seem?" Mel had asked.

 

"I'd say she looked a little down, like she didn't want to leave, but she had to."

 

In her bathrobe, Mel had sat there at the kitchen table numbly, wondering why.

 

 _And that's what I'm going to find out._ Her letters to Janice had remained unanswered. She had no phone number for the archaeologist, although, she discovered upon her arrival, the New York phone book had a listing for a J. Covington. So finally, after the holidays ended, she decided it was time to come to New York and track down her friend. _Did I scare her off? Was I too intense? I did say, "I love you."_ She recalled the surprised look on Janice's face when she said it: Lying together, legs entangled. She had been propped on her elbow, looking down at Janice, whose hair was burnished, orange in the candlelight.

 

It had been obvious Janice wasn't ready for that: She had sat up, in shock, strangely modest in that she clung to a sheet wrapped around her torso. _Better than saying "shazam," I suppose_ , Janice had cracked nervously. (Which, unfortunately, had been Mel’s wildly inappropriate and utterly laconic commentary following her first climax with Janice.)

 

However, it was one instance where she had not appreciated Janice's disarming remarks.

 

Mel scanned the marble lobby. The only people in New York seemed to be soldiers and sailors; both types of men were clustered around the Plaza's elegant bar and loitering in the lobby. In the half-hour that she had been waiting for Jack, two soldiers, who wanted to ply her with drinks for obvious purposes, had accosted her. She stood up, then bent at the waist to adjust the back of her stockings. _Who invented these things?_ she wondered irritably when she heard a male voice behind her, "Pretty good caboose there, sweetheart."

 

Indignantly she drew up to her full height and looked down on Jack, who was startled to see that the woman responsible for the nice caboose was Mel. He turned visibly pale. "Uh…hi Melinda," he said sheepishly. "Sorry, I didn't think it was you, I mean, I don't remember you being _so_ …it's been a long time, and…gosh, you look swell!" he concluded lamely. He wore a private's uniform; as he told Mel when she contacted him, he had managed to be placed in the Army Reserves even though initially he had been 4-F.

 

She raised an eyebrow and noticed his discomfort at that gesture. "Hello, Jack. How are you?"

 

"Pretty good. The army life, it's a tough one. Even stateside, that is." He nodded toward the bar. "Shall we have a drink?"

 

"Fine."

 

Over rum and cokes, he asked her, with all the delicacy he could muster, "Have you heard anything?"

 

"No," she replied. "You?" She couldn't keep the hope out of her voice, even though she knew his answer.

 

He snorted. "You kiddin'? If she hasn't contacted you, she sure as heck wouldn't have contacted me."

 

"There was always a chance, Jack." Mel opened her purse and dug around for the address. "I found a 'J. Covington' in the phone book. Luckily, it's the only one. I tried calling the number but no one ever answers." She pulled out a scrap of paper. In the times when she had corresponded with Janice, the only address she had was a New York P.O. Box. "It's Cornelia Street…do you know where that is?" she asked tentatively, not sure if she wanted to trust Jack's knowledge of New York.

 

"Sure, it's in Greenwich Village. Figures Janice would live down there."

 

Mel frowned. "Why?"

 

Jack scrunched his lips together to stop his initial response ( _Because that's where all the weirdos live_ ) from leaving his mouth, and also to buy time while he thought of something more appropriate. "Well…that's where all the, uh, career girls live."

 

She seemed less than satisfied with the answer, but nonetheless a determined look crossed her face. "Let's go."

 

"Now?" he asked with alarm.

 

"Jack, it's Sunday afternoon, not the middle of the night. You don't have to come with me if you don't want to." Clasping her purse, she stood up and headed for the door.

 

"Wait!" He scrambled behind her, as she gracefully exited the hotel.

 

*****

 

Cornelia Street was narrow and sedate in the late afternoon light. A tiny café was the only sign of life, the windows heavy with steam. Checking the fragment of paper one more time ( _God, what if I wrote it down wrong?_ she agonized) Mel and Jack stood in front of a drab, stucco building. As they entered the stairwell she noticed that _Covington_ was scrawled on the mailbox of the third-story apartment, along with some other name she couldn't quite make out. They mounted the bleak staircase. At the door of apartment 3, they heard lazy, swaying big-band music from a radio within. Mel gave a brisk knock, and stared into the peephole, not knowing she wouldn't see a thing.

 

The door swung wide open. A voluptuous young woman, with dark brown hair and preternaturally gray-blue eyes, stared at them. More specifically, at Mel. She wore nothing but a man's white oxford shirt, which hung down to her knees, causing Jack to blush. She gave Mel a once-over. Then a twice-over.

 

Mel twitched with discomfort, but put on her best manners. "Excuse me ma'am," she drawled pleasantly, exaggerating her accent for maximum "charm the Yankee" effect, "I'm sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, but my name is Melinda Pappas, and I am looking for Janice Covington—" Before she said anything else, the woman in the doorway started to chuckle.

 

"What," the woman said, taking in Mel's neat blue suit, eyeglasses, and black hair in a bun, "does she have an overdue library book?" She snorted at her own joke. Jack guffawed as well. Mel silenced him with an icy glare.

 

"I'm a friend of Janice's. We've done some collaborative work on the Xena Scrolls she discovered in Macedonia. I've been trying to get in touch with her for months."

 

"Oh yeah…the Xena Scrolls," she groaned sarcastically. "What a bunch of crap." She walked away from the door. "C'mon in." The woman flung herself in a chair, and gestured to the sofa. "Sit down. Wanna drink?"

 

The hallway was a good indicator of the apartment's look: it was small, dirty, and bare. Nothing in the room indicated that Janice had ever been there. Mel and Jack exchanged a look of horror before they sat themselves down on the soiled couch, neither one sitting back into the foul cushions. "Er, no thank you," Mel said.

 

"Who's he?" The woman pointed accusingly at Jack.

 

"This is Jack Kleinman. He's a friend of Janice's as well," Mel replied.

 

"Hi," Jack said meekly.

 

"May I ask your name?" Mel inquired.

 

The woman took a drink from a glass by her chair. "Mary Jane Velasko." Her eyes lingered on Mel. "Well, I gotta hand it to Jan, she's got good taste. The bitch." She took another drink. "She stuck me here to pay the rent. Just took off."

 

"Where?" Jack and Mel asked in unison.

 

"She joined the WACs." Velasko stared into her glass. "Or so she told me."

 

 _Oh God no_. Mel, stunned, could not say anything. The strange tired feeling that she felt at the hotel returned, and her body ached and burned. Jack watched her with concern, then asked Velasko, "When did she leave?"

 

" 'Bout three months ago. She put all her stuff in storage. Then _boom_ , she's gone."

 

"And you haven't heard anything from her since?" Jack continued.

 

"Not a goddamn thing." Velasko noticed Mel's deathly pale countenance. "Sorry, Scarlett." She paused. "You got it bad for her, don't you?" She looked at Mel with not exactly sympathy, but something in her strange eyes understood exactly why Mel was here.

 

Jack looked confused. Then upset. "Just what are you implying—" he began angrily.

 

"Let it go, Jack," Mel said hoarsely. Jack frowned, but said nothing else.

 

"Yeah, I could say the same thing to you, Scarlett," Velasko said. "Forget her. She'll screw you over like she did me."

 

Mel stood up stiffly. "Thank you for your help," she said in a strained voice. _If I don't get out of here I'll throw up,_ she thought.

 

"Sure. You know the way out," Velasko said sardonically, not moving. "Oh, and Scarlett?"

 

Mel, with Jack behind her, paused by the door.

 

"If you ever do find Janice Covington, tell her I'm going to kill her."

 

*****

 

As it turned out, she _did_ throw up, in a trashcan outside the apartment building. Wincing with disgust, Jack offered her a handkerchief. "Thanks," she said softly, dabbing at her mouth. She slumped against the building for support.

 

"Melinda, you look awful," Jack said, alarm coloring his voice.

 

"Thanks," she repeated in a daze.

 

He clapped a hand over her forehead. "You feel clammy," he said.

 

"Are you sure it's not your hand that's clammy?"

 

He scrutinized his palm, and tentatively poked it with the other hand.

 

Mel rolled her eyes. "God, I need a drink," she moaned, more to herself than him.

 

"Ha! You sound just like Janice." A miserable look crossed her face, and he was instantly sorry he said it.

 

Then she looked at him curiously. "Did you see her much? While she was living in New York?"

 

"What? Naw." Jack's examination of his palm continued; with absentminded nervousness he started to rub it with a thumb. "We went out drinking a couple times…I wish I'd seen her more, but…" Mel studied his hangdog expression; _does he have a crush on her?_

 

"I know how you feel." She'd said it before she realized what she was saying.

 

He looked at her. "Huh?" he said. _Thank God, he didn't understand._ Another wave of nausea swept over her; the only thing that prevented her from falling to the ground was

the side of the building she was leaning against.

 

"I've got to get back to the hotel," she said feebly. Wearily she pushed herself away from the building. "I don't feel very well." She started to walk, heading toward Sixth Avenue in hopes of catching a cab, but she didn't get far. The world darkened as she hit the ground, and she heard Jack yelling her name.

 

*****

_June, 1944_

_London_

 

"Covington!" the voice shouted.

 

Janice recognized the voice, but decided to ignore it for as long as possible. But she could not ignore the soft yet steady kicks that Blaylock gave the soles of her shoes. She forced her eyes open and looked up blearily into the face of U.S. Army Captain Daniel Blaylock, her commanding officer and friend.

 

Dressed from head to toe in regulation army khaki—shirt, pants, even her undergarments were khaki—Janice was stretched out in the spare cot that Blaylock kept in his office. She had arrived in London six months ago, in January, after completing her training at Fort Oglethorpe. The very first day at HQ, as luck would have it, she ran into Blaylock, an old friend from college; he immediately put in a request that Janice be assigned to him as an assistant. Officially she was his driver, but her seemingly unlimited energy compelled Blaylock to give her as much work as she could handle.

 

Blaylock shared Janice's passion for archaeology, but his field had been the emerging one of Egyptology, which he taught at Dartmouth. Another thing they shared was a romantic past; Blaylock had been the first (and only) man she'd slept with. _It wasn't bad,_ Janice thought in retrospect, _but something was missing for me_. She didn't know what it was, until one night she and her roommate consumed an inordinate amount of sloe gin and ended up in bed together. And Blaylock found them the following morning. He was terribly hurt, which she regretted immensely; _I love you_ , he had said. _And I love you_ , she had responded, _just in a different way. Can you accept that?_

 

He did. Or so it had always seemed.

 

He stood in front of her with some of the dreadful English coffee from the canteen downstairs. Handing a cup to her, he said, "Thought I'd find you here."

 

Tentatively she sipped the bubbling hot sludge. "Yeah. I wanted to finish that report."

Luckily Blaylock did not insist on military formality, except in front of other officers.

 

"You didn't have to," he chastised her. "It would've waited." He smiled, wondering if he should spring the news on her now or later. "But I'm glad you did." He decided he couldn't wait, and let his grin grow larger.

 

Puffing on the coffee, she looked at him suspiciously. "You're being very cheerful, Blaylock. I don't trust it."

 

"You should. Because I have the news you've been waiting for. In a week we're being sent to Normandy."

 

She almost dropped the cup, so she sat it down on the table. "We?"

 

"You got it. If all goes well, a contingent of WACs will be sent to France. Mainly to handle the switchboards and mail, things like that. But they need some drivers too, Janice. And you're gonna be one of them. I recommended you myself."

 

She exhaled slowly, and leaned back against the wall. "Son of a bitch," she mused aloud. "I'll finally be doing something useful." She was too immersed in anticipation to notice the slightly hurt look on Blaylock's face.

 

*****

"Influenza," the doctor said to Jack curtly.

 

"How?" Jack replied, mystified. "It's not goin' around, that I know of."

 

They stood in the hospital corridor at St. Vincent's, where Jack had brought Mel after her collapse.

 

The MD shrugged. "You're right, there's no epidemic. But there are a lot of folks in the city right now who have been exposed to all sorts of viruses overseas. So it's likely your friend caught some strain that she has no immunity to."

_*****_

She ached dully, tossed between delirium and the tantalizing edge of clarity. But clarity and consciousness, however appealing in their own way, were not as pleasant as the oblivion of the fever. She knew the conscious world contained no Janice. The fever gripped her and for the time being she surrendered to it. The part of her that knew Xena, however, was aware that this fraudulent bliss was temporary. Despite it all, she would survive.

 

*****

 

"Shit," Janice said.

 

"Try _ship_ ," Blaylock retorted.

 

They stood on the dock, surveying the huge ship that would take them, and 40 other WACs under Blaylock's joint command with a senior officer, to France. The group also included several intelligence officers and British women recruited as ambulance drivers.

 

"I'm dead," she moaned. "This will be hell on earth."

 

Blaylock smiled grimly as he recalled the time when they were in college and he took her aboard his father's yacht. No sooner had it pulled out of the harbor than Janice spewed her breakfast into Cape Cod. "Look, you'll be fine," he assuaged her. She glared at him. Triumphantly he pulled a small vial from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. She questioned him with a look. "The latest thing. Pills that prevent seasickness. The Army doctors recently perfected the formula. It should do the trick."

 

She glanced skeptically as the bottle, then pocketed it. "Thanks."

 

"Well," he sighed, "everyone else is aboard, so we should get up there." They picked up their rucksacks. "Ready to deal with a ship full of horny sailors?" he teased.

 

She smirked into his too-pretty face. "The question is, are _you_?"

 

*****

Janice stood alone on the deck of the transit ship. It was, as they say, "spitting rain." An earlier fog had dissipated. They would be in France by daylight tomorrow morning; normally it would not take so long, but report of enemy activity off the coast forced them to go slow and delay their arrival as much as possible.

 

It was frustrating to her. _I've been a coward most of my life,_ she thought. _I ran away from my father because I didn't like the way he did "business," I hurt Dan because I was too gutless to tell him how I really felt. And I did basically the same thing to Mel. She may hate me by now. But I just couldn't let her love me the way I am. Maybe it's too late now. Maybe this war will kill me. Still, I need to know what I'm made of. If I'm worthy of her. Even though I've probably lost her._

 

She saw a figure come up from below deck. Her eyes narrowed in increasing disbelief at the figure: tall, wearing a British uniform and a thick leather bomber jacket, with long black hair whipping around her face. Janice squinted. A hand brushed back the dark hair from the woman's face, a face that, even clutching a cigarette between lips, mirrored that of Melinda Pappas.

 

She could not take her eyes off the woman. _It can't be_...she thought. Janice knew she was right: Even though she looked exactly like Mel, this woman carried herself differently, even surveyed her surroundings differently than Mel: these blue eyes were narrow as they suspiciously scanned the horizon, as if daring the skies to rain more. She moved awkwardly, as if she never got used to the tall, broad-shouldered body that she inhabited. Her face had a stoic, veiled cast, a classic chip-on-the-shoulder look. And that look was directed at Janice, who, even as the woman angrily glared at her, could not stop looking at this carbon copy of Mel.

 

The woman unfurled her body from its hunched up position over the railing. She threw the cigarette down on the deck, and in three easy strides was towering over Janice. "What the bloody hell do you think you're lookin' at?" she snarled. Her thick yet pleasing accent was not a London one; north country, perhaps, Janice guessed.

 

"What? Nothing," Janice stammered. She tried to step back from the woman, but a large strong hand seized her arm, its crushing grip painful.

 

" 'Nothing,' eh?" the woman retorted mockingly. "You fucking Yanks are all the same. Think you can come over here and act like you run everything."

 

 _Ah, a woman who swears more than I do. How refreshing._ "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare at you. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's just that you look a lot like someone I knew back home. A really good friend..." Janice trailed off in a whisper. _And what if you lost that really good friend by treating her the way you did? Fucked, then abandoned?_

 

The woman squinted at Janice, reading the archaeologist's face, and decided she was truthful. She relaxed her grip. "I'm a sucker for a sob story, I am," she muttered, more to herself than Janice.

 

"I truly am sorry," Janice repeated. _I hate it when strong, beautiful women are angry with me_!

 

The Englishwoman released Janice's arm. "All right, then. Forget it." Another dark mood crossed her face though, and Janice panicked. "Goddammit! I threw away my last cigarette!" she cried. She looked back at the railing where she had stood, but the wind had already swept her cigarette out to sea.

 

Quickly Janice pulled out a pack of Chestertons. In England it was next to impossible to find the cigars she usually smoked. Blaylock, who had some black market connections, kept her supplied with cigarettes instead. She offered one to the woman. "Ta," the woman grunted, unwilling to feel gratitude toward this strange American woman. Janice lit her cigarette with the silver lighter her father had given her years ago. "Nice lighter," the Englishwoman commented.

 

"Thanks," Janice replied. "I'm Janice Covington," she said, and extended a hand.

 

The woman enfolded Janice's hand with her larger one. "Meg Edmondson," she said.

 

*****

 

It was late in the mess hall, almost midnight. Everyone was in bed except Janice and two of the WACs, Porter and Lang. Porter possessed a large flask of whiskey that her boyfriend, a British intelligence officer back in London, had given her for the trip. They were passing the flask among themselves, and feeling pretty good. Janice felt relaxed for the first time in months as the whiskey coursed through her blood.

 

They had launched into a giggly, gossipy session about Blaylock when Porter motioned to someone standing in the doorway. "Psst! C'mere!!" she called.

 

Janice's back was to the door, and Lang, sitting beside her friend, did not recognize to whom Porter beckoned: "Who's that?"

 

"One of the limey girls. Edmondson, I think."

 

Janice's head snapped around so fast that she was surprised her neck didn't break. Sure enough, Meg strode over to them. "Hiyer," she greeted everyone as she loomed over the table. She seemed shyer around groups of people.

 

"Sit down, have a drink with us," Porter said.

 

"Ta," she said, and sat next to Janice.

 

The warmth Janice felt increased as Meg sat down. _It's been a while, hasn't it? You haven't laid a finger on anyone since...well, since last summer._ She studied Meg's handsome profile: the riveting blue eyes, the jet-black hair, the chiseled cheeks and full, soft lips. _Ah, Meg, your name a mere consonant's difference from my beloved's._

_This is not the time to indulge in cheap affairs,_ a voice protested inside her. _There_ is _a war going on, after all!_

 

"We were talkin' about Blaylock," said Porter. "Jan said she knew him in college." Janice hated being called Jan, but she let it pass. She had not told the women any more than that about Blaylock; she did not want to cheapen her relationship with him. Besides, such conversation would inevitably lead to _why_ it ended.

 

"Really?" Meg asked. She arched an eyebrow at Janice, whose resolve to behave crumbled even faster.

 

"He's a cutie, isn't he?" threw in Lang.

 

Meg shrugged. "I suppose so," she said.

 

"Not your type, eh?" Porter asked with a grin.

 

"Not quite," Meg said mysteriously. Her blue eyes flickered in Janice's direction. _A sign from God?_ the archaeologist thought hopefully.

 

The two women continued to wax poetic on Blaylock's looks. Janice took a swig from the flask and handed it to Meg. _Here goes nothing,_ she thought. _If she slugs me, hopefully she won't tell them why._ She let her hand stray over to Meg's thigh and with a delicate, slow, sensuous stroke ran her fingers along the muscular leg.

 

Meg sputtered and coughed as she drank from the flask.

 

"Want some milk instead, honey?" Porter laughed.

 

Janice grinned. "Well girls, it's been swell, but I should go." She stood up and indulged in a full body stretch, her eyes catching Meg's. "I think I'll get some air on deck first, before bed." She hoped the others didn't take it as an invitation to follow her up. They didn't, thankfully, and they bade Janice goodnight.

 

Once again she was on deck, near the entrance. The night watch was far away, near the stern of the ship, and luckily he wouldn't be back around for another quarter hour.

 

Ten minutes later, Meg stood in the portal leading up to the deck. Spotting her, or rather her long, shadowy figure, Janice jumped down to greet her. In the dim light she saw the Englishwoman's face, confused and wary. Carefully she cradled the face in her hands and gently brought it down to her own, where their lips met. As the soft kiss expanded over seconds, Janice's hand brushed Meg's face, then her neck, where she felt the woman's erratic, throbbing pulse. With a gasp for air Meg broke the kiss. "Jesus Christ all mighty," she murmured.

 

Janice left a hand on Meg's cheek. "You've never done this before, have you?" she asked gently.

 

"No."

 

"If you don't want to, I'll stop. And I won't bother you again."

 

"That's what I'm afraid of."

 

*****

 

They ended up in a supply room. Groping through the darkness, Janice found a blanket and placed it on the floor; there was just enough room to lie down.

 

Hours later, the gray light of morning filtered through the room. Janice, awake, was sitting against a wall. She knew they should get back to the barracks area immediately, but Meg still dozed in her arms and was sprawled over the archaeologist's lower body. Her nude form was covered haphazardly with both their coats. It felt good. There was no denying that. She stroked Meg's shoulders, the skin smooth and taut over the muscles. Overall, the Englishwoman was broader, heavier, and more muscular than Mel was. Not that Mel had a bad body; no, not at all. _You have the lean look of an underfed academic,_ she had teased the Southern scholar during that night they spent together. _Well Janice, if you don't like what you see, you should go._ Mel had replied with her aristocratic hauteur. _If you do, then I believe you should just shut up and kiss me._ Needless to say, Janice had opted for the latter.

 

 _This isn't good, to think of Mel while I'm holding another woman,_ Janice chastised herself. _But why else did I sleep with her, other than she looks like the woman I'm in love with?_ She squeezed her eyes shut upon admitting this truth. Simultaneously she tightened the embrace around the slumbering figure, wishing for all the world that the woman in her desperate grasp was Mel.

 

*****

 

In the mess that morning, Blaylock stood in line with Janice for breakfast. "What happened to your finger, Covington?" he asked casually, looking down at the white bandage covering the middle finger of Janice's right hand.

 

"I caught it in a door, sir, " Janice replied uneasily, since she was, as Mel put it, the world's most inept liar.

 

"I see you've had it taken of, Covington. Good," Blaylock said perfunctorily. Then, under his breath, he whispered to her, "Why don't I believe that for a minute?"

 

"Because you know me very well," Janice hissed back. Shaking his head in mock resignation, Blaylock headed for the officers' table, and she toward a table of WACs including the terribly hung-over Porter and Lang. The Brits sat by themselves. Janice sat down with her comrades and caught Meg's brilliant blues boring into her, as the Englishwoman sipped tea.

 

*****

Chaos. They were unloaded off the ship and immediately ushered into trucks; Janice barely had a moment to orient herself. Blaylock and the other officers, however, were stalled, waiting for radio dispatches. The women were restless, and many got out of trucks to stretch their legs, talk, smoke cigarettes, and stare at the jagged cliffs of Normandy.

 

With a cigarette drooping from her lips, Janice scanned the area for a sign of Meg. She headed toward the truck that carried all the British ambulance drivers. No Meg, she noted, as she nodded greetings to some of the familiar faces. With a sigh she walked away, and past an empty truck. She did not notice Meg jumping out of the back of the truck as she walked by. The large, handsome woman snagged Janice's arm from behind, rough yet friendly, and spun the smaller woman into her arms. She plucked the cigarette from Janice's lips.

 

Janice started to laugh but was silenced by a kiss, the soft yet imperious lips crushing into her own, her mouth yielding to a gentle warmth. "Wanted to say so long," Meg said, when she withdrew her lips from Janice's.

 

"Hell of way to say goodbye. Not that I'm complaining."

 

"Yeah, well, take care of yourself." The laconic Meg paused, at a loss. "Uh, I'm sorry. About your finger." She blushed. Last night in the supply room, as Meg continued to grow louder and louder, Janice had clapped her hand over the woman's mouth at _the_ crucial moment, and Meg savagely bit into a finger. Luckily no stitches were required, so she had sneaked into the infirmary that morning and put disinfectant and a bandage on the wound.

 

Janice returned the blush. "It was worth it, don't you think?" she said.

 

*****

 

_July, 1944_

_New York_

 

Jack sat in Mel's hotel room, watching the tall, elegant woman carefully pack her bag.

 

"Tell me again," Jack said, "who is this guy?"

 

Mel drew a deep breath. She had grown fond of Jack in the past several months. He had been enormously kind and caring during her illness; he brought her books, flowers, newspapers—indeed, anything she wanted—while she languished in the hospital, and upon her release in the late spring, proudly told her that he found out where Janice was stationed: in London. But sometimes he was like a giant child, and one had to tell him the same information over and over again, as if it were all some fantastic story to him. _Well, in a way, it is_ , she mused when she thought of everything that had brought her to this point: poised to plunge into a war.

 

"His name is Anton Frobisher, Jack. He's an old friend of my father's. He's an army colonel running a civilian intelligence unit in London." She had sent a telegram to Frobisher weeks ago, asking if she could stay with him in London, and if he could find work for her. His response came by courier from the Embassy: He had arranged a flight for her to London, lodgings of her own, and a job.

 

"Okay, right. And you're going to translate stuff for him?"

 

"Yes, for the military," she amended.

 

"London's a crazy place to be right now, Melinda." D-Day had transpired only a few weeks prior. "The Germans are bombing the hell out of London."

 

"I know."

 

"You could get really hurt. Even killed."

 

"I know."

 

"And Janice might—" he swallowed.

 

"Jack!" she cried, a little too sharply. _Yes, she might be dead for all I know._ She took a moment to regain her composure, and shut the lid of the valise. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

 

"It's okay. Look, it's bad enough I have to worry about Janice being there, but now you too," he sighed.

 

"I understand, Jack. But believe me, I have no intention of being killed. And I'm sure Janice doesn't either." She paused. _Although I wonder sometimes…given the way she left._ She shook the thought from her mind.

 

"Yeah, well, it was a stupid thing, her running off like that."

 

 _As if he were reading my mind. Well, he loves her too, in his way._ She smiled. "I won't argue with you on that." She started to pick up her baggage, but Jack jumped up to help her. "Here, lemme…" he started to grab everything at once, then remembered something. "Hey, wait!" He dropped a suitcase, narrowly missing Mel's toes, and pulled something out of his shirt pocket. "I wanted to give you this before I left. Thought you might like to have it." He smiled shyly and handed it to Mel.

 

It was a photo of her and Janice in Macedonia, taken, in fact, minutes after they had escaped Ares' tomb. Jack, ever the tourist, had snapped the photo before either one of them could protest. They both looked like hell: Mel's hair was loose and tangled wildly about her head, her clothes were torn, sweaty, and dirty. Although the photo chopped them off at the waist, she remembered that she had been barefoot. Nonetheless she faced the camera, with a feral, genuine grin. Janice too was dirty, disheveled, and exhausted; her dusty fedora perched on her head. But her gaze was directed not at the camera but at Mel; it was a strange, contemplative smile, as if she were seeing Mel for the first time. It was, Mel thought, a look she had never seen on the moody young woman's face. _That's a Mona Lisa smile if I ever saw one,_ Mel thought. _Or rather, it's more like an angel's, a sculpture atop a church doorway. Full of mystery_ , _love, and promise._ The smaller woman's arm was around her, and Mel swore she could still remember the sensation of Janice's hand pressing into her back. It was at that moment in Macedonia that everything started to fall into place: why she was so compelled to travel halfway around the world to meet a stranger, why she was fascinated by the Xena Scrolls, and why she instantly felt drawn to Janice Covington. It was an ancient bond.

 

She let herself laugh for the first time in a year. She hugged Jack, who almost seemed to swoon at the contact, and they headed for the airport.


	2. the gift of chance

 

  1. _London Calling_



 

_July, 1944_

Colonel Anton Frobisher had not seen Mel since his young friend had spent a year studying at Cambridge six years ago. He had witnessed her in every stage of her life: as a sweet-natured infant, a curious toddler, a precocious child, a lanky teenager, and a shy, soft-spoken young woman. While he was eager to see this latest "version" of his oldest friend's progeny, she remained fixed in his elderly mind as a little girl, an intelligent eight year-old, who—when she didn't have her nose in a book—was chasing around Patches, a very old cat that lived on his estate in Cornwall. Wielding a long stick that she called a sword, the girl swore that the ancient calico was her arch enemy seeking revenge against her. _She was…an odd child at times._ One day the old cat triumphed and caught Melinda with a rather nasty scratch on the arm.

 

*****

_June, 1924_

 

Melvin Pappas carefully dabbed peroxide on the cut. The girl's eyes brimmed with tears, and her lower lip trembled, but she stared stoically past her father into space.

 

"You're being very brave, Melinda," he said soothingly. "Almost done." Quickly he wrapped some gauze around her arm and tied it neatly. Out of sheer relief a tear escaped her eye, and he soaked it into his dry, callused thumb. "There we go," he said, with a kiss to her forehead. "Come, let's join Uncle Anton for tea."

 

They headed for porch, where Anton waited in a wicker chair. At the table before him, high tea awaited them all. He ruffled Melinda's hair as she walked by. "I daresay, Melinda, Patches—"

 

"Catlisto," corrected the girl solemnly.

 

"Er, yes—Catlisto—may have won the battle, but you won the war. She flew out of the house like a storm."

 

"No, Uncle Anton, I shall never be rid of Catlisto," Melinda intoned dramatically. "She is an immortal."

 

Anton shot a glance at his friend, who convulsed in silent laughter over his tea. _Good God, Mel, what do you let this child read?_ "An…immortal, you say?"

 

"Yes, a cat is the form she now takes. Centuries ago she angered the gods, and Zeus turned her into a common house pet." With that, Melinda shoved a scone into her face, in the way only a hungry child can.

 

"Well," Anton mused, looking out into the yard, "now that I think about it, that old beast has been around here ever since I can remember…"

 

*****

 

He was impressed as she stood in his doorway; Melinda continued to grow more stunning with age. She incorporated her father's looks—the height, the broad shoulders, the black hair and blue eyes—into an irresistible package. He felt a strange attraction toward her—strange, because it was based solely upon her resemblance to the dead man who was her father. _Ah, dear Mel, even though I never told you, you knew how I felt. And you remained my friend anyway. Bless you._ "Melinda, I'm so delighted to see you again. You look lovely," he said to the woman, at last. He rose from behind his desk and walked to her. She bent a little to receive the kiss that the shorter man placed on her cheek.

 

Her smile was shy, yet warm. "Hello, Uncle Anton." She paused. "Or should I call you Colonel?"

 

"Call me that only when we work, my dear. Do sit down." Mel sat in the armchair that faced his desk.

 

"Well, I've got you all set up in a flat, dear, not far from here. Fact is, we've taken over a whole _block_ of flats, it seems. Nothing spectacular, you know, probably nothing you're used to, living in that grand house by yourself."

 

"I'm sure it will be fine, Uncle Anton." _Is he implying I'm spoiled? The house I live in would barely be big enough to be a shed on his estate,_ she thought.

 

"Good. I'll have McKay take your bags over in a bit. Now, I do recall you know quite a number of languages, aside from that ancient nonsense you know."

 

She chuckled. "Yes, I do."

 

"Well?" His demand was a bit imperious, as his career soldierdom seeped through.

 

"Oh! Let's see: Spanish, Italian, French, German, Russian, Polish, and Romanian."

 

He clasped his hands in delight. "Excellent! We have quite a large number of Polish military in London right now, you know. About 30,000 men. So we need all the help we can get in translating services. I've quite a number of documents that need work. But that can wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I think you should have dinner at my home. We'll catch up a bit."

 

"Sounds wonderful."

 

He stood up and she followed. "Let me walk you out." He stepped outside the office and instructed Sergeant McKay, his assistant, to bring around a car to take Mel and her luggage to her new flat on Mecklenburgh Street.

 

As they descended the steps to the ground floor, his curiosity overtook him. "Melinda, why is it you are here, in London?" he asked gently. The urgent letter she sent gave no reason for her sudden interest in being so much closer to the war.

 

"Ah, well, I did want to contribute to the war effort," she stammered, sliding her glasses up along her nose with a shaky finger. He smiled, charmed at her nervousness.

 

"But you could have done that just as well in your own country," he retorted.

 

"Yes, you're right," she conceded. A pause. "I came to find a friend—who's stationed here."

 

 _I knew it,_ he thought smugly. _The old girl is in love._ "An American, I assume?" She nodded. "What branch is he in?"

 

A faint blush colored her cheeks. "Er, my friend is in the Women's Army Corps, Uncle Anton."

 

"A woman?" Frobisher mused.

 

Mel raised an eyebrow, gently amused. "Yes, unless they changed the admission policy or something."

 

 _Oh my._ He couldn't keep a grin off his face, which made her blush deepen. _So, Mel, that's why I caught you poring over Kraft-Ebing one day, when your daughter was a teenager. And I thought it was in reference to_ me. He noted with empathy the anguish and worry now on her face; he smiled inwardly: _And I may be in a position to help_. But for the moment he resolved to try and cheer her up: "So she's one of those…what do you call them, wackeys, eh what?" He waggled his thick, gray eyebrows.

 

He was rewarded with a giggle. "A WAC, you mean."

 

"And you don't know where her assignment is?"

 

"No," Mel answered, her expression turning morose once again. "An Army friend said she had been stationed here, in London. But I don't know where, exactly."

 

He opened the door and they were outside, against the darkened sky. Mel's ebony hair blended into the night, yet her eyes glimmered like beacons, even in the foggy, blacked-out haze of London.

 

Frobisher patted her arm. "Melinda, if she's here I'll find her. Let me see what I can do. What's your friend's name?"

 

She ducked her head, preventing him from seeing those bright eyes cloud over in pain. And she told him Janice's name.

 

*****

 

Frobisher hung up the phone with a sigh. Almost two weeks had passed since Mel's arrival in London. As he could've predicted, she threw herself into the work at hand, and was very good at it. He regretted that her duties called upon her to act as an escort to military functions for some of the Polish officers, many of whom, inevitably, grew infatuated with her. He noticed the weariness with which she threw off the advances; it was obvious to him that she was discouraged in her search, and losing faith.

 

Now, finally, after untying knots of bureaucracy, he had news for her. He wouldn't have imagined that finding one American WAC would be so time-consuming; but Janice Covington was, after all, only one of many involved in the war. And the news wasn't good. True, it could be worse, but it still wasn't good. He walked down the corridor to where she shared an office with two other translators. Only one of the translators, Cutts, was in the office. "Hello, sir," the young man greeted Frobisher; he was exempt from military service due to a heart problem.

 

"Hello, Cutts. Where's Melinda?"

 

"Think she went to the loo, sir."

 

Frobisher chuckled at his bluntness. He lingered at Mel's immaculate desk, and noticed the curling, black and white photo taped on the wall above her desk: It was Melinda, looking rather disheveled, with a small, fair-haired woman, wearing a fedora, who gazed at her rather intently. Rather adoringly. And Melinda? How often had he seen the girl grin like that, with such unfettered joy, with such abandon of her very serious, almost mask-like, demeanor?

 

Cutts noticed Frobisher's interest in the photo. "It's an odd picture, isn't it, sir?" he said. "Doesn't do Miss Pappas justice, probably not her friend either." The older man smiled mysteriously. _On the contrary, it does them more justice than you can imagine._

 

"I happen to like that photo." He heard Mel's soft voice from the doorway. He turned to her, and immediately his face gave everything away. "You found her?" Mel asked; her tone shifted, and crackled with nerves, almost like a static-filled broadcast.

 

Frobisher nodded with resignation. "She's in France, Melinda."

 

*****

 

After he told her, she immediately went back to the WC, leaving the men staring after her in stunned silence. Crammed into the small room, she pulled off her glasses with a trembling hand and cried above the toilet. _This is maddening. Every time I think I'm getting closer…I find out she's somewhere else._ Her glasses, cradled loosely in her curled hand, slipped out of her grasp and clattered to the floor. _At least they didn't end up in the toilet. That would be just my luck about now._ She could not stop the visceral, angry curse that welled up in her mind. _God damn you, Janice._

 

 

  1. _Why She Hates France_



 

_September, 1944_

 

It was Paris, but it sure as hell wasn't springtime. A third-rate hotel served as their base of operations. It did not endear the French to Janice Covington, nor she to them—especially when she growled for whiskey in their dour cafes, and only got red table wine that made Thunderbird taste like Veuve Cliquot.

 

She walked out of the hotel, and saw him leaning against the ambulance they were taking. Blaylock threw the ambulance keys at her. They sang through the air with a _whiz,_ hit Janice in the right breast, and fell to the ground with a _ping_. She scowled. He blushed. "Sorry. We've got to get going," he said.

 

"If they think I'm such an idiot, why are they letting me drive him there?" Janice grunted, scooping the keys from the ground. "They" referred to General Bradley's underlings, the American liaisons to the Force Francaise d'Interior (also commonly known as the FFI, or the Resistance), who called upon Captain Blaylock for a driver to escort Max Duval, an FFI leader, to Reims. What Duval would be up to in Reims, Blaylock was not told; but when the Captain offered Janice—the best driver of ambulance, jeep, and truck in Paris—for the mission, he was rebuffed. It took a good deal of conniving on Blaylock's part, but the authorities finally agreed to let Janice drive Duval—if she were escorted by Blaylock.

 

"They don't think you're an idiot, Janice. They're just touchy about this one. Duval is a pretty important guy, and he was almost killed in the street fighting that went on last month, before the Liberation. Besides, they promoted you, didn't they?" The thought of a WAC—who was also a private—undertaking this crucial task was more than their Division Leader could bear, so they promoted Janice. But not by much.

 

"Yes, I do so love the alliterative joy of Corporal Covington rolling off my tongue."

 

Blaylock grinned. "Well, if you wanted to be an officer, you should've gone into officers' training."

 

"I didn't want to be an officer," she snapped.

 

"Then why the hell are you complaining?" he retorted, confused.

 

They stopped walking toward the ambulance truck they were taking for the journey. After three months of blood, mud, and death, not to mention the growing realization that her feelings for Melinda Pappas had neither decreased nor deceased, Janice allowed herself a surly outburst, aimed at one of her closest friends: " _Because I can._ "

 

Luckily, Blaylock was accustomed to such displays, having known Janice for many years, and merely shrugged it off. "Well, you need someone to come along anyway, since you barely know French," he chastised her in his gentle way.

 

Duval, still nursing a broken arm from his fight of several weeks ago, sat morosely in the ambulance truck's open hatch, waiting for them. Aside from her rudimentary Greek, Turkish, and Arabic, Janice knew very few modern languages; French, especially, was perplexing to her for some odd reason and she watched impatiently yet enviously as Blaylock conversed effortlessly with their charge. However, Duval's meaning was unmistakable to her when his moist dark eyes settled on her and he crooned, " _Ah, un blonde ange._ " Both men grinned at her with sheer infatuation.

 

"Oh, Christ." Janice walked away with a growl and a roll of the eyes, and climbed into the driver's seat. "I hate the French."

 

Blaylock gestured for Duval to enter the truck. Closing the hatch, he sauntered over to the passenger side as the engine kicked over.

 

As they drove out of the city, all was quiet. Judging from the heavy breathing in the back, Duval had fallen asleep. Blaylock studied Janice's sullen profile and racked his brain for conversation, for something to divert his cranky friend. He had noticed as of late she seemed moodier and moodier, more inclined to pick fights with everyone from their Division Leader (concerning the general lack of respect given to the WACs) to a whore on a street corner (who said she would charge Janice more than a regular customer, not only because she was a woman but an American as well). _Well, that was my fault, I never should have dared Janice to ask her how much she would charge._ _Ah._ He remembered something he wanted to tell Janice: "Guess who I ran into on Boulevard Saint Germain yesterday."

 

"Who?"

 

"Papageno."

 

Janice blinked in recognition at the name; Papageno was a Greek friend, an important contact in the world of archaeological digs. He could provide men, supplies, and the most crucial gossip with a snap of the fingers. "You're kiddin' me. What's he doing in Paris? I thought he was sitting out the war in England."

 

"He was. But once he heard Paris was liberated, he came here. I think he wants to be closer to home. Anyway, he sends his regards, and said he would try to contact you soon, etc. etc.”

 

“Still yapping his fool head off, huh?”

 

“Yeah. It’s a wonder he’s survived this war for so long. Never has a nickname been so appropriate.”

 

“Nickname?” Janice’s brows furrowed as she drove.

 

Dan stared at her. “You mean you didn’t know that was a nickname?”

 

“No. Hell, no.”

 

“Guess you never saw _The Magic Flute_.”

 

“I ain’t big on musicals.”

 

“It’s an opera, Janice.”

 

“Same goddamn difference. An opera is just a musical that gives you a bigger headache.”

 

“You’re amazing,” Dan muttered, shaking his head. “He also asked if you received the scroll he sent you from England."

 

She remembered with a jolt. _The scroll. God, I haven't even thought about it…it all seems like another lifetime ago. And I suppose it is._ It also served as a reminder of Mel. _But then, I don't need much to remind me of her._ "Yeah, I did. I'll have to tell him."

"Are you working on a translation?" Blaylock asked, his professional curiosity piqued.

 

"Yeah," Janice replied absently.

 

"Are you using Melvin Pappas's daughter again?"

 

The truck swerved violently, almost ending up in a ditch, and provoking a cry of " _Mon Dieu_!" from their startled passenger. Blaylock looked at her in alarm.

 

" _Using?_ " Janice bristled.

 

"For the translation." Blaylock supplied impatiently. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

 

"Uh, yeah…I am…I…she has the scroll now. I left it in her hands." _As well as my heart, my sanity, and everything else._

 

Blaylock's lips quirked as he suppressed a grin. A sudden instinct had overtaken him. "You know," he drawled sadistically, "I've never met Miss Pappas. But I know Clement Young, her former advisor at Vanderbilt."

 

"Really." Janice said flatly. The last thing she wanted was to talk about was Mel. _It's bad enough she consumes my mind…if I dare talk about her, I think I will go crazy._

 

"Yeah. Clem says she’s quite brilliant. Practically a genius."

 

"It's true," Janice quietly affirmed.

 

" _And_ she's quite a knockout, he says."

 

Corporal Covington was silent.

 

"I believe his expression was, 'She's got legs for miles.' " What he omitted was Young's further commentary on the subject: "It's a shame, though: I think she's queerer than a two- dollar bill."

 

Corporal Covington clenched her jaw.

 

"No opinion on that, Covington?" he teased gently.

 

And since when did Corporal Covington _not_ have an opinion on a woman? A bittersweet realization hit Blaylock: The woman he was in love with was finally in love with someone. And it still wasn't him.

 

*****

 

In an effort to find out more information about her missing friend, Sergeant McKay, Frobisher's assistant, directed Mel to the St. George, a pub that WACs were known to frequent. She selected a Friday evening to go there. It wasn't terribly crowded, and while she was thankful of that, it decreased her chances of finding Janice. She scanned the room and spotted a group of khaki-clad American women at a table. None of them resembled the fiery-haired archaeologist. With a sigh she walked up to the bar. The barkeep smiled and nodded at her, as if she came in all the time; however, before she could order a drink a decidedly unfamiliar hand cupped her ass. _What_ is _it with men and my behind?_ she thought, spinning around in anger. A British soldier, a sergeant, was grinning at her.

 

"Meg, love! Didn't know you was back in town!" he cried happily in a Cockney accent. His eyes roamed her figure. "Nice outfit! Thought you was doin' your bit overseas, drivin' an' all that. But I'm _real_ glad you're back."

 

"Sir," she replied icily, "I'm afraid you're mistaken. My name is not Meg."

 

He doubled up in laughter upon hearing her accent. "Bloody hell! That's great…I reckon if Vivian Leigh can play Scarlett O'Hara, so can you!"

 

"Sir— _sergeant_ ," she said, gritting her teeth, "I am not who you think I am." She rifled through her purse, pulling out her work papers and passport, thrusting the documents in his face. As his laughter subsided, he studied the papers. His face paled. "Jesus H. Christ, miss, I'm sorry!" he apologized. "I really thought you was Meg—you're her spittin' image."

 

"That's quite all right," she replied in haughty relief.

 

"I should've known a class act like you was no Meg." _Oh wonderful, he's a talker._ “'Specially since I heard she's—" He held out a hand, palm down, wiggling it. "—gone a little queer. Heard she had a bit of funny business on a ship with some American lass. An' I can tell you certainly aren't one of those types of women."

 

Because he managed to snag Mel's interest, she let his last comment pass. She blinked. "On a ship?" she asked. _Could it be—?_

 

"Yeah, transport to France. 'Bout three months ago." It fit in with the date of Janice's departure for Normandy, she realized; Frobisher had supplied her with the time line. "My mate was a watch on board. Said he recognized Meg from the old days, when she and I went out together. Well, he gets on duty one mornin', see, and hears these noises in a supply room. And there was no mistakin' what them noises were about. He figures it's one of the officers having it off with one of the ladies, and they deserve to have one last time together before hitting the ground, eh? So he doesn't bother 'em. Well, 'bout an hour later he sees Meg come out with some little American WAC!" the sergeant finished the story on a note of incredulous laughter.

 

Mel slumped onto a barstool. _Was that Janice? Who else would be brave—or stupid—enough to do something like that? Was she sleeping with another woman already? And why someone who looks like me? It makes no sense…running away from me to become involved with someone who looks like me? I am never going to figure this out._ She scowled, and recalled the woman named Velasko, and her parting words to Mel: "If you ever find Janice Covington, tell her I'm gonna kill her." _Take a number, Miss Velasko_ , Mel thought darkly.

 

*****

A church in Reims, they were told, was the drop-off point for Duval. As they reached the town's outskirts, Janice's eyes scanned the rubble and husks of buildings that began to surround them with increasing alarm. "How can we tell what goddamn building is the church?" Janice complained.

 

"Janice, if anyone could put _goddamn_ and _church_ in the same sentence, it would be you," Blaylock retorted. But he also looked discouraged. Finally he yelled back to Duval, who scurried up to the front. " _Ou est la eglise?_ " he asked the Frenchman, who franatically scanned the streets.

 

" _Ici! Ici!_ " Duval cried, pointing at a large building which, indeed, still resembled a church, despite its crumbling facade; a stone lineup of angels adorned the top of its entrance, all part of an elaborate-heaven and-hell scene, with its details chipped away. Jesus was missing the arm which pointed upward; demons had faces blown off, rendering them even scarier. The ambulance pulled up too the door. Before Blaylock could stop him, Duval had opened the hatch and was out of the vehicle. A thin man, dressed in black, peered from the open doorway of the church. He then came out and hugged Duval.

 

"Aw, that's sweet," Janice said, only semi-sarcastically. Blaylock, however, could never get used to the intense fraternal affection of Frenchmen, and he glanced about awkwardly. After a few minutes of speaking with his comrade and some others who emerged from the church, Duval bounded over to them and smothered the Captain with an embrace. Janice laughed at Blaylock's consternation. " _Merci beaucoup, mon ami_ ," Duval whispered into the Captain's ear. Then he released Blaylock and turned to Janice. "Ah, Madamoiselle Covington!" he breathed ecstatically. It was Blaylock's turn to laugh.

 

"Dr. Covington," Janice corrected automatically. Duval blinked in confusion.

 

" _Corporal_ Covington," Blaylock threw in. Duval looked even more confused. Then he shrugged with a Frenchman's insouciance. " _Au revoir, mon blonde ange_ ," he whispered melodramatically and planted a kiss on Janice's lips. She pulled back, sputtering with disgust, like a nine-year-old.

 

Duval's dark-clad comrade came out of the church with a small rucksack. He handed it wordlessly, with a smile, to Blaylock. The Captain opened it and returned the smile grateful at the sight of apples, cheese, bread, and a wineskin. With a final wave the two men departed into the church.

 

She waited until they had disappeared behind the door, and she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. "Did I mention I hate the French?" she grumbled as they climbed back into the ambulance truck.

 

*****

The sound of the wheels blowing out was so like an explosion that Janice thought they’d hit a mine. The truck swerved violently, spinning around almost 360 degrees, until the end of the vehicle slammed into a tree. Her jaw hit the steering wheel and she bit part of her lip at the impact. But the vehicle was still, and they had not blown up, although the radiator was smoking from under the hood.

 

She looked at Blaylock, who was rubbing his knee. "You all right?" she asked.

 

"Yeah, just banged my knee against the dash. You?"

 

"Fine. The steering wheel packs a hell of a punch, though." She rubbed her jaw. "What happened?"

 

"Don't know. Either you ran over something sharp in the road, or we set off a mine that, luckily, had a delayed explosion."

 

She jumped out of the truck.

 

"Careful!" he cried, in warning.

 

They were on a slight incline, with the passenger side tilted upward. Before Janice could suggest that Blaylock come out on her side, he kicked open his door and jumped out. "Shit!" he cried as she heard him fall with a _thud_. She ran over to him. He sat on the ground, now rubbing his ankle instead of his knee. "What?" she asked.

 

"Great. Now I think I sprained my ankle," he moaned.

 

She held a hand down to him. He grabbed it and hauled himself up, impressed as always with her strength. He leaned on her lightly, relishing the physical contact between them, despite the throbbing pain in his ankle and the grim circumstances. _How in the hell do we get out of this?_

 

Janice scanned the road. Her breath caught at the sight: Huge shards of broken glass were trailed along the road. "Son of a _bitch!_ I ran over glass and I didn't see it!" She disengaged herself from Blaylock, who leaned against the truck for support.

 

Blaylock peered into the road. "It's clear glass, Janice. It's hard to see it," he said gently. He knew immediately she would beat herself up about it.

 

"Fuck!" she screamed, and furiously started to kick at the truck and its flat tires. Obviously she would beat up the faultless vehicle as well. _I just have to keep her from kicking me around too,_ he thought. "Janice," he began patiently, "It was an accident. By the time you would have seen it, it would've been too late anyway. Besides, if you're gonna blame anyone, blame me. I was distracting you by trashing the Giants anyway." He watched as she stopped kicking, and her ragged breathing relaxed into a stable rhythm.

 

"Sorry," she panted.

 

"It's okay. Let's just, uh, gather our wits here." Blaylock sank against the metal, wishing for nothing more than a nap. Janice was frowning, hands still on hips. The silence spun itself out into minutes.

 

"Must've run over our wits too," Janice mumbled.

 

He wondered if she were even thinking at all, as he watched her expression erode into blankness. Anger washed over him. _Do I have to do everything?_ "You seemed a bit put out when I mentioned Pappas' daughter." _So just what the hell am I really mad about here?_

 

She glared at him. "Whaddya mean?"

 

"I mean you looked upset. What's goin' on? Is she lousy to work with or something?"

 

"No," she retorted firmly, folding her arms over her chest.

 

"Is she a bad translator?”

 

“No.” She stared at the ground, then him. “Is there a reason we’re discussing Mel Pappas when _we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere_?”

 

Blaylock ignored her. “Is she trying to steal the scrolls from you, then? Does she wear a perfume you don't like?" He watched—with malicious glee—as her lips flattened and her jaw tightened, and he hated himself for it. "Whatsamatter, Janice? Has she proven resistant to your charms? Did you say something and she slapped your face, just like Betty Murphy did that one time?" Betty was an uptight coed they knew back at the university, and briefly they’d had a bet riding on who could seduce the pretty brunette first. After his subtle wooing failed, Janice had tried a more direct approach with Betty; he hadn’t quite been within earshot, but he was certain the word _fuck_ was involved. And thus the coed had responded in kind, with a hard slap that staggered Janice. _Even then, you just laughed it off. You didn’t care. Always more fish in the sea, you said. But you’re not laughing now, honey._

 

Blaylock realized his teasing had gone too far when a fist slammed against the truck, a scant two inches from his head.

 

"Shut up," she growled in her lowest voice.

 

Desperation for the truth nudged out fear. "Just tell me."

 

"Fine," she spat. But her eyes were moist. And pained. "I'm in love with her. I have _never_ felt this way about anyone in my life. Is that what you want to hear?"

 

"No," he replied softly.

 

Janice spun around and stalked away. He started to wonder if she would walk back to Paris and leave him here; he could only hope that, by the time she reached the city, she would regain her temper and send someone for him. But just as abruptly as she started, she stopped, and faced him again. "How many times do I have to hurt you, huh? I'm sick of it. I'm sick of feeling bad about it."

 

Blaylock was now grateful they were alone, as her shouts carried on the wind. He said nothing. "Okay, okay, forget it. Now's not the time to—"

 

"You started it!" she roared, shaking a finger in his direction. “You don’t always get what you want in this life, buddy. You haven’t. And neither have I.” She took measured, angry steps, a sullen gavotte along the rough, rutted road, kicking up dust with her scuffed boots. Then she stopped, and looked at him again. Her shoulders slumped guiltily. "Look, I, uh..."

 

He couldn't bear her fumbled apology. "Oh, Janice," he murmured. But she did not hear him. He drew a deep breath, and, thankfully, the commanding officer in him emerged. "Forget about it. Let's just concentrate on getting out of here." They were both silent for a moment. Janice paced, hands crammed into her back pockets, glaring at the road. Then it hit Blaylock. "Hey! There was a farm about two miles back _—_ "

 

"A farm?" she echoed.

 

"Yeah, you didn't see it. It was on my side of the road. It looked pretty abandoned, but there was a truck there! I remember seeing it. If we could get that truck...I mean, if there are people there maybe they would drive us to Paris, or we could exchange the food for the vehicle..."

 

"Or if there isn't anyone there, I could hotwire it," Janice grinned.

 

He stared at her. She was a doctor—an intelligent and admired professional in her field (in spite of her father's reputation), a Harvard graduate, and a beautiful woman. But she was also as much of a roughneck and hooligan _as_ her father, the infamous Harry Covington. It was the duality of Janice that intrigued him, and compelled him to love her. "Where in hell did you learn to hotwire a car?" She opened her mouth to reply, and he cut her off: "Never mind, I don't want to know. Okay, let's walk back to that farm." Tentatively he put all his weight on both legs, and winced when the swollen ankle screamed its protest.

 

"Wait a minute, hotshot. You're not going anywhere. You can hardly walk." With a gentle shove she pushed him against the truck again.

 

"The truck's not going to come to us, Janice."

 

"Look, why don't you let me go get it and I'll bring it back. You stay here."

 

His face darkened. "No deal, Covington. I'm not letting you go alone."

 

"For Christ's sake, Dan, you're injured. You have to admit you'd slow me down if you came along. Hell, I could run there if I went by myself."

 

"You don't know _—_ "

 

" _—_ any French, yes, I know, but I know how to pantomime real well, and I think between that and my pidgin French I'll convey the urgency of our need."

 

He sighed. He knew he would regret this, but he nodded his consent. "All right," he grunted. He handed her his .45."Take this, and the food for the swap. I've a got a rifle in the back, so I'll be okay." She tucked the gun into her waistband, under the cover of her jacket, as if she had been doing such a thing for years. _And she probably has,_ he thought. _Another thing I don't want to know about._

 

She grinned. "I'll be back," she said, and took off, jogging lightly down the road. Wistfully, he watched her form grow smaller until it disappeared from his sight.

 

*****

 

Indeed, the small farmhouse had been abandoned; there was not even livestock, although there was blood to indicate most of it had been slaughtered, rather sloppily, for food. _At least I hope it's animal blood, and not human_ , Janice thought as she carefully prowled around the buildings, handgun drawn. Her search yielded no one, living or dead.

 

The truck was, to her astonished pleasure, a very old Ford. She checked under the hood for any suspicious wires, which might indicate a bomb, and found none. The body was terribly rusty, and, given its age, it was harder for her to start it than she had hoped. But eventually the engine turned over, and she hopped into the driver's seat triumphantly.

 

The old truck lurched down the road. She was reluctant to drive it fast, in case it would die. As she approached the wrecked ambulance she saw no sign of Blaylock. She beeped the horn, which resounded shrilly in her ears. _Not good. Where is he?_

 

She put the brake on, and, with the truck running, came out of the vehicle. "Dan!" she shouted. She noticed that the hatch of the ambulance was open in the back. Which it hadn't been before. Briskly she walked toward the truck, thoughts racing. _He's okay...maybe he just fell asleep...no need to panic, no need..._

 

She turned the corner, looking into the ambulance and the eyes of a German soldier. He was crouched down and shoving medical supplies from a metal chest into a large rucksack. Blaylock, she noticed, was face down behind him. In a dark pool.

 

They could only stare at each other, stunned, the American woman and the German soldier. He looked young, _perhaps a little younger than me_ , Janice thought. In reality, the first thing she had noticed about him were his sky-blue eyes, so like Mel’s. This moment of empathy gave him just enough time. Just enough time for his expression to range from shock to recognition to rage, just enough time to draw his pistol and shoot her.

 

At first she couldn't believe she was shot, but the pinprick of pain in her thigh unfurled like a fire and within moments a sticky warmth started to drip down her leg. Another shot, and she fell back, this second bullet also lodged in her leg. She gasped as she hit the ground, and waited for him to shoot again. But he went back to stuffing his rucksack. Obviously stealing the bandages, ointments, and instruments were far more important, and he had no time to be merciful and kill her quickly. He would just let her linger, let her die slowly, like her friend.

 

 _My friend_. There was a bloody smear on the edge of the door, a fresh crimson curve like a bird’s wing, drying slowly like paint on a canvas. She groped for the .45. _So it comes down to this._ A scream filled her lungs. The soldier's head snapped around. She pumped three bullets into his chest. His Luger, drawn after the first shot, clattered onto the metal floor and slid toward her, like an offering. She stared at the gun, panting. _I've never had to shoot anyone before._

 

She stood up—ignoring the runaway blood that coursed down her leg and the faint feeling that accompanied it—and crawled into the back of the truck, to where Blaylock lay. She turned him over. His torso was slick with blood. He had been shot twice in the chest, but he was still alive. Barely. "Janice?" he whispered. His eyes were wide, unfocused, and staring past her, into the unknown, into a future that was far away from her.

 

She struggled not to cry. "Jesus, Dan," she said huskily, "I leave you alone, and look at all the trouble you get in. I'm the one who's supposed to get into trouble here."

 

"Yeah, sorry." He gave her a weak smile. "The son of a bitch. He caught me off guard."

 

"Shhh, Dan, be quiet. I've got to fix that wound." She started to move away but his bloody hand gripped hers.

 

"Too late," he gasped. "Let it go."

 

She knew it too. But fought it nonetheless. "No!" she screamed. She scrambled toward the rucksack, pulling out bandages. The floor was slippery with his blood, and she practically slid across the truck. _Jesus...Jesus Christ. I'm going to faint. I can't. I can’t._ "I have to get you into the other truck," she breathed heavily.

 

"Shit, Janice, you're wounded too," he said, spotting the growing crimson stain on her trousers, as she crawled back, cradling bandages.

 

She pressed a bundle of gauze to his chest. There was something hopeless about that soft ruffled fabric, pressed into the sticky blackness of the wound. She stared at him, trembling. He returned the gaze, knowing that he would die.

 

"Just—just hold on to that. I'm going to try and move you."

 

"Wait," he said feebly.

 

"No, I can't, Dan, I've got to—" She dropped her head, and the tears came. The familiar sensation of drowning, of failure, strangled her. Losing the scrolls—never mind that she had found them again—then losing Mel, now this.

 

"Please...don't, Janice. It'll be okay." He touched her arm with a shaky hand. "Just stay with me for a moment."

 

She cradled his head and placed it on her lap, wrapping an arm around him.

 

"I'm sorry, Dan. So sorry."

 

He coughed. Blood speckled his lips. "Not your fault the damn Kraut shot me."

 

"No, it's not that." _I'm sorry about hurting you. I laughed when you found me in bed with a woman, remember? I'll never forget the agony of your face. Why did you—and why do you continue to—love me?_ "I'm sorry about us."

 

"I know." He smiled weakly. "Fat lot of good that does both of us, huh?" She tried to smile back at him, but his words hit home. She dropped her gaze. Then he said, "Janice?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Doesn't she love you?"

 

"I think—I think she does." _I hope so._

 

"You go back. Get back to her and fix it," he said hoarsely. "Make sure you get home."

 

She felt his breathing slip away to nothing, disappearing with daylight. She lost track of how long she sat there with his body, drifting in and out of consciousness, until a pair of headlights blinded her and she heard the screeching of a vehicle and voices, speaking English, that grew louder and louder as they approached her.

 

_ Epilogue: Sometimes a Blitz is Just a Blitz _

 

_November, 1944_

_London_

 

He thought he'd seen it and heard it all from the old man. Sergeant McKay had served as Frobisher's assistant for almost a year now, and in that time he had to memorize as many Gilbert & Sullivan operettas as he could manage (sometimes Frobisher liked some impromptu duets from him and Scotti, the unemployed, one-armed, opera singer doing cryptography), as well as the old man's tea rituals ("McKay! I told you, Earl Grey in the morning, and Darjeeling in the afternoon! _Darjeeling is an afternoon tea._ ").

 

Then, one afternoon, the old man was roaring at him once again: "McKay! Come quickly!" With a roll of the eyes the chubby Irishman lumbered into the Colonel's office. Frobisher stood excitedly at his window, his walking stick pointing at something outside, the tip of the stick eagerly tapping the glass pane. "McKay! See that woman down there?" The Sergeant looked out the window; in front of the courtyard, near the stone fence that surrounded the building, stood a blonde woman dressed in khaki, lighting a cigarette. "Fetch her! Bring her to me at once!"

 

"Sir!" McKay cried, outraged. _This is too much. I won't be procuring women for him as well_ , he thought.

 

"Damn you, McKay! I said now! Go get her! That's an order!"

 

The color drained from McKay's ruddy face. He was not the type to disobey an order, and in that respect he might have made a fine Nazi. Nonetheless he reluctantly jogged to the steps, and the momentum of his bulk carried him down the staircase rather swiftly. He half-hoped the young woman had escaped, for her own good. _God knows what the old bastard would do to her._ But the woman was still there, smoking. She wore the uniform of a WAC, and was much prettier than he initially thought. She glared at him with suspicion as he approached.

 

"Excuse me, miss." McKay couldn't get used to it—the idea of women in the military. Hence he usually disregarded calling them by rank. "I've been asked to escort you to Colonel Frobisher's office."

 

The young woman's brow creased in puzzlement. "Who?"

 

McKay sighed in exasperation. "Colonel Frobisher! Commanding Officer of the Intelligence Corps!" He pointed in the general direction of Frobisher's office.

 

"Why?"

 

"I don't know, miss. Just come with me, please."

 

Taking one last drag on a cigarette, the woman shrugged her acquiescence and dropped her smoke on the ground, crushing it with a black heel. McKay took off at a quick clip, then realized the woman was not at his side. He stopped and turned around. She was walking slowly, with a pronounced limp. "I'm sorry, miss." McKay said. "Didn't mean to take off like that." The woman merely smiled and nodded at his apology.

 

Frobisher was waiting impatiently until his door opened and McKay appeared breathless. "Here she is, sir," he said warily, and showed the woman in.

 

As she stood before him, Frobisher took her in: slender yet muscular; he had noticed the limp as she came in. Her green eyes burned in her tanned face, a mass of reddish blonde hair was pinned up haphazardly in a sloppy bun. A cap hung limply from a back pocket. He admired the defiance in her eyes. _Oooooh, Melinda, you picked a lively one._ Nonetheless, he had to show the impertinent girl, who merely stared at him, who was in command. "Good God, young woman," he growled, "don't they teach you to salute your superiors?"

 

Instantly she straightened; standing at attention, she knocked off a crisp salute. "Sir!" she said firmly.

 

"Name and rank?"

 

"Covington, Janice. Corporal." She paused. "Sir."

 

"Division?"

 

"The 13th, sir."

 

"Ah. You were in Paris recently, no?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

He nodded at her leg. "Wounded, then?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"What happened?"

 

"I was shot by a German soldier, who was trying to steal medical supplies from an ambulance. He killed my commanding officer."

 

"And the soldier got away?"

 

Janice's eyes flickered with something; he was not sure what. "No sir. I killed him."

 

He gave her a sympathetic smile. "At ease, Corporal." She relaxed gratefully. "You're a very brave woman."

 

She said nothing. He let it go. _Not easy to kill a man. The first time's the hardest._

 

"I suppose you're wondering why I brought you here."

 

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

 

"We have a mutual friend." He paused. "I believe you know a lovely young woman named Melinda Pappas?" Covington's cocky facade dropped like a stone. _Not so spunky now, are we? Amazing, I've never seen someone go pale quite so quickly._

 

"Yes, sir," she whispered.

 

"Melinda's father was a very good friend of mine. And I've known her since she was a child." Frobisher peered at Janice critically. "Melinda's been looking for you, you know. She's been in London for nigh on six months now."

 

Janice could barely mask the shock on her face. "I wasn't aware, sir," she replied hoarsely.

 

He leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Well, you are now, aren't you? And what shall you do about it?"

 

*****

 

_The fire seethed, throwing reds and golds along the body that hovered above her own. The shadows on the wall existed only to spite the colors. She ignored them, for the blue core of the fire, its orange glow, and those unmistakably green eyes saturated her sight._

_Legs tightened around her own, and hands held her face. “Remember… I asked you once. If an Amazon Queen beats a Warrior Princess.”_

_“Apparently you do.” The response was whispered._

_“Yes, I do, don't I? Well then, hail to the Queen, baby.”_

 

Mel blinked herself awake, into the chilled blackness of London and the air raid siren.

 

As usual, she had fallen asleep in her clothes. She spent so much time between work and hiding out in air raid shelters that she saw little point in undressing most of the time, except to bathe; and, in the face of the cold, wet English weather that she was unused to, she had abandoned her usual skirts and dresses in favor of warmer, more practical clothing. She wore a pair of baggy gray flannel trousers that Frobisher had given her, saying that they used to belong to a male "friend," and a white blouse, one of her own.

 

Time to get into the shelter again. She groped for her glasses in the near dark, and could not find them. Sighing, she stretched and got up. The colonel had also provided her with a huge black overcoat, and now she donned it and stepped outside. The coat felt heavy and protective, like armor, yet it was also soft and warm.

 

Outside the apartment building were a few fellows from the building. Several of them worked in HQ as she did; in fact, Cutts, her office mate, lived in the building too. The young man was now smoking a cigarette and watching the light flashes from the east. He saw her approach. "Melinda," he said with a nod.

 

"Hello, Frank. What's goin' on?"

 

"Lots of coastal activity. Might not reach us." They continued to watch the lights in silence. Then a noise pierced the twilight: a shrill whistle grew in intensity and an explosion shook the ground. From a mere half-mile away they saw it: bright orange light and smoke. Mel grasped his arm, and he instinctively touched her hand. "But then again," Cutts whispered, "I may be wrong."

 

*****

_Son of a bitch._

 

It was early morning, almost eight o'clock. Janice walked as quickly as she could down the street. The air raid of the night before prevented her from finding Mel. She was, of course, pressed into service, and had driven an ambulance to one of the outer neighborhoods, which had been quite devastated. Thus her night had passed, driving, digging for bodies, administering first aid, and sleeping in the back of the truck when she could, the sharp bitter tang of medicine and blood curling in her nostrils. And it was hard to sleep, but not due to the smells, or her exhaustion: It was her realization that Mel was here… _in this goddamned, godforsaken war zone of a city._

 

In the morning, when she was off-duty and supposedly sleeping, she headed for the address that Frobisher had given her. It was not far away, but her bad leg ached a little as she walked. She wished the damn leg would heal faster, but the doctor did tell her it would take a while, and that both the pain and the limp should decrease dramatically in due time.

 

As she grew closer to her destination, she saw that the raid had hit this area as well. Part of this street she traversed had been decimated and lay in charred, darkened ruins. Remnants of smoke curled lazily, enveloping the street. She froze, her heart in her mouth. _What if…?_ Her leg throbbed and she leaned against a lamp-post, breathing heavily. She hung her head, a hand over her eyes, unable to look at the ruins. _If it is true, I can't bear it. I can't lose her. If she's dead, it's because of me—she followed me here._ The responsibility punched her in the gut. She wanted to turn and run. Wouldn't it be better not to know at all, than to find out that Mel was dead? To imagine her living happily, and not see a body, another dead, broken body? _Too much death. I've had too much. I do not want to see hers. I couldn't bear it._ Almost imperceptibly, her body shifted, as if to head back the way she came.

 

_Don't walk away._

 

The voice inside her was new, yet old in its origins. It felt so thoroughly a part of her that she never believed it was her ancestor, but she realized, standing on that street corner, that it was. She'd heard it in Macedonia, after she'd pulled Mel out of the cave, when Jack Kleinman impulsively took a photo of her and Mel. She had looked at Mel and, as the camera clicked, so did everything else. _I've found you,_ the voice had said. Janice had shrugged it off, chalking it up to too much booze the night before and her always-raging hormones, but now, finally, she could not deny the way in which she was drawn to Melinda. No matter how much she drank. No matter how many barroom brawls she indulged in. No matter how far she would run.

 

_A fate, a destiny, a bond. Call it what you will. Your courage has carried you this far. It will get you through._

 

 _All you have to do is look up._ Now the voice sounded…amused. But before she could comply, she felt a gentle touch on her arm. And when she did look up, it was into the blue eyes that she would love for life. And beyond that.

 

Mel was thinner, perhaps even a little gaunt, and looked tired. The large, dramatic dark overcoat she wore, and her black hair, which, uncharacteristically, hung loose and tumbled past her shoulders, exacerbated all this. Her long, elegant hand lingered on Janice's arm as they stared at each other.

 

"I've found you." Janice thought it best to start with Gabrielle's words.

 

Mel's jaw shifted, as a sea of words and emotion, stymied over the course of a year, threatened to spill out into incomprehension. "You found _me_? I've been looking for _you_ ," she sputtered.

 

"I know. I'm sorry. Are you hurt?" Tentatively she pulled on Mel's sleeve, and surveyed the streets; people were talking on street corners, pulling out wreckage, helping their neighbors, their homes destroyed, damaged, ruined. Lives were disrupted, but life went on. And no one seemed to pay attention to two lovestruck American women gazing intently into each other's eyes. Perhaps even the most unsympathetic passerby would admit it was better than having a bomb dropped on one's home.

 

"No, I'm fine. Just tired. Our block wasn't hit, luckily. Just some smoke damage—I was on my way to the office—" Mel felt a spurt of babbling coming on, as she continued to stare at Janice in utter disbelief. When she first saw a fair-haired, uniformed woman standing dejected, leaning against a lamp post, she thought, _too little sleep and no glasses makes for pleasant hallucinations_. But as she drew closer, she knew it was Janice. It was really her; she was really _here. Don't be a ninny and start crying now, Melinda Pappas._ Nonetheless the unbidden tears sprang into her eyes. "God," she whispered, "there's so much I've wanted to say to you."

 

"I know, Mel. I'm sorry about what happened."

 

"You mean—you regret it?" The tall woman's voice had dropped to an agonized whisper.

 

"Jesus, no, I didn't mean…that. I don't regret _that_. I meant, I shouldn't have left the way I did." _Quick, say it before you lose your nerve._ "Look, I have only two things to say to you at the moment," she gulped. _Come on, I can do this, after everything I've been through this past year…surely this is not hard. Or is it, quite possibly, the hardest thing I've ever done?_ "I love you. I think I always have, from the minute I saw you." She paused again, for effect. "And I'll never leave you again." Another pause. "Actually, I guess that was three."

 

Mel seemed stunned, as if the Nazis had dropped a bomb on her head.

 

"You're not gonna faint again, are you?" Janice asked anxiously, recalling that fateful visit a year and a half ago, when Mel fainted at the sight of her. _That should have told me something, then. Would a Southerner faint at just a little heat? No, it would take a lot of heat to lay this woman low._

 

Mel shook her head vigorously. "No, I, uh…I…" The translator was clearly exasperated and befuddled. "I don't know whether I should slap you or kiss you."

 

"I think I would prefer the latter, although I don't blame you if you do the former." Janice grinned. "Or you could compromise and do both."

 

Mel ducked her head and laughed nervously. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She rarely joked in such a suggestive manner, and her cheeks felt hot.  


Having Janice take her hand—a rough thumb slid over her knuckles—did little to decrease the burning blush. “You get to do whatever you want with me, Melinda.”

 

Janice was rewarded with a dazzling smile from her lover, who enfolded her in an embrace, into the blackness of her coat. She closed her eyes with relief and inhaled Mel's scent. Surrounded by the dark warmth of the coat, her mind's eye was radiant with color.

 

*****

 

“Stop right there!” commanded the doctor.

 

Janice froze, hands clutching her belt. Her game plan had been to bolt from the examining room, and perhaps put on the belt in the bathroom; she wanted out of there, and away from the hospital, that badly.

 

“You’re done with me, Corporal, but I want you to see Dr. Elias downstairs. He’s waiting for you.”

 

“What—why?” Irritated, and defeated, she slid the belt through the pant loops and buckled it. “You just said I was in top-notch shape, that you’d never seen a woman as fit as me.”

 

“Aside from the smoking,” he amended.

 

“Aside from the smoking,” she echoed sarcastically. “So what’s this about another damn doctor?”

 

He tried not to chuckle at her blatant phobia. “Corporal, physically, you’re perfection. It’s the mental part that we need to check up on.”

 

She sneered at him. “You guys think I’m a nutcase or something?”

 

 _God_ , he sighed to himself, _why me_? He marshaled together his last strands of patience. “No,” he said carefully, “no one has said that. This is standard procedure, for a psychiatrist or a similarly trained professional to evaluate personnel who have been wounded in combat situations. You _were_ in a combat situation,” he reminded her.

 

Janice rolled her eyes.

 

“Go see Dr. Elias now. That’s an order.” He terminated any further discussion by turning his back and fiddling with a chart. She left.

 

*****

 

Janice suspected that Dr. Elias’s glossy black beard covered a baby face of alarming youth. The army doctor sat at his desk, quietly perusing a document in front of him—presumably, her medical file. Janice sat across from him, fidgeting as if it were the first day of grade school. She wondered how young he really was. _Younger than me?_ And if that were the case, she thought, it would be all the more reason not to trust him.

 

# Fucking quacks anyway, digging around in someone’s head—my mind is not an excavation pit!

 

He looked up at her with a disarming smile and terribly blue, terribly beautiful eyes. It was a fatal flaw, this partiality to baby blues— _damn you, Mel Pappas!_ —and it thawed her resistance to some extent.

 

“You’ve seen a lot of action, Corporal,” he began. His voice was low and gentle.

 

“I know guys who have seen a hell of a lot more,” she retorted. Her fingers performed rapid drum rolls along the arm of the old leather chair. The muted sound resembled distant rain and thunder. “Can I smoke?” she demanded politely.

 

“Of course.”

 

She fished the cigarettes out of her shirt pocket, contained in the sky-blue Gauloises pack. _I can’t escape that color_. She blinked and ignited the lighter, spewing smoke like a surly dragon.

 

“It’s true that many soldiers have seen far more extensive and traumatic combat, but that does not detract from your experience,” Elias continued.  

 

“Are you saying that’s a good thing?”

 

“Not necessarily.” He folded his hands. “I suppose what I’m saying is, don’t sell yourself short. Accept what has happened.”

 

“I have.”

 

He raised an eyebrow. “Have you? Your file reports that while you were recovering from your wounds in Normandy, you were routinely disturbed by dreams.”

 

“Everyone there had bad dreams.” She shrugged.

 

“True. But not everybody woke up the entire ward with their screaming.”

 

She dropped her gaze. _Damn it! Why did they have to put that in there?_ “There are things that I—I can’t get out of my head. I wonder if I ever will.”

 

He leaned forward, cupping his hands in front of her, as if offering something. “Do you want to tell me about what you see? These thoughts, do they occur strictly when you sleep? Are there any waking dreams or visions?”

 

“Most of the time, I guess it’s, uh, when I’m asleep. It’s not—like I’m hallucinating or anything during the day. But sometimes I do see something that reminds me of—” She stopped. Recently the innocuous sight of a waiter in a restaurant triggered a memory, as she watched him walk quickly across the room with a cup of tea on a tray, the dark liquid spilling over into the saucer. _A corpse in the ambulance…its mouth brimming with blood._ As she had driven that day, she saw it in the rear-view mirror, the redness sloshing over into tiny rivulets as the vehicle swayed over a pitted, rough road. “My mind drifts—it’s kind of like when you’re not focused, and you trip over something that’s right in front of you, y’know?”

 

He nodded, but remained quiet, hoping she would continue.

 

“Like a blown-off limb,” she said softly.

 

Elias let the silence fill the room for a few moments. “When did you see that?”

 

“Lots of times. It’s just that, it usually _wasn’t_ someone I knew.” She looked at him; he was very still, waiting for her to continue. “There was this hotel ballroom. Not in the place where we were billeted, but another hotel. The Americans had pretty much taken it over as kind of a club, y’know? Mostly ambulance corps, drivers, some GIs. We would always go there for drinks, to shoot the breeze. I knew a lot of them, I worked with them. Hell, some of them I knew from basic training.” She stared at her hands, at the barely perceptible tremor that twitched her fingers. “And some Sunday morning…there were a bunch of girls there, they’d been there all night, trying to sleep it off—I had been there too, but I’d managed to stumble back to my room somehow. And…Sunday morning…there were church bells. And then there was an explosion from the club. Some idiot was trying to play the piano.” _Probably Lang,_ Janice thought. Lang had been a music teacher back home, knew how to play about half a dozen instruments. And Porter was just dumb enough to encourage her to do it, and not think about booby traps. “There was a bomb inside it.” She looked at Elias. “You can guess the rest.”

 

“No, I can’t.” He urged her on. “Tell me.”    

 

“My CO and I were one of the first ones on the scene. I’d never seen anything like—like that before. It would be better if bombs totally liquidate a body, just reducing you to blood and water. But they don’t. They leave behind chunks of flesh. Bits of brains, eyeballs. Limbs. Fingers.” She closed her eyes, but the litany marched on, silently.

 

Running through the debris of the hotel that day, she’d tripped and fell over a severed arm. She had then recognized Porter’s engagement ring on a finger, and vomited, adding her own filth to the mess.

 

Janice did not know how long she had been sitting there in Elias’s office, with her eyes closed; time appeared suspended until she opened them, feeling dazed, as if she had lived through that Sunday all over again. She marveled at the stillness of the doctor; like Mel, he seemed possessed of a great patience, an assured, inner grace. _You love in others what you want most for yourself, what you fail to see in yourself._ She felt a sudden ache and longing at the thought of Mel, then felt ridiculous about it—they’d only been apart for a couple of hours. She had left Mel at Frobisher’s office this morning, then headed for the hospital. They were supposed to meet for lunch when she was done.

 

“I’ll never get this stuff out of my head, will I?” Janice was surprised at how composed, how clear and strong, her voice was. Maybe the head-shrinking _was_ helping.

 

“I can’t imagine that you will,” Elias replied. “The trick is not to let them dominate you—you control them, always remember that. And you can counter and fight those images with better ones.”

 

“Like what?”

 

He smiled again. “If I suggest them, they’ll sound trite.”

 

“Oh, I see. Flowers in springtime! A sunrise! A sunset! A pint of Guinness!”

 

Elias laughed. “Something like that. Perhaps the face of a loved one.”

 

“What, so I can picture her getting blown up?” Janice blurted.

 

He raised an eyebrow as she gave herself away.

 

 _That was swift_ , she berated herself, and sank into the chair. “Shit, now I suppose now you _really_ have a reason to kick me out of the army.”

 

The doctor smirked. “Corporal, if General Eisenhower himself will not dismiss female homosexuals from the ranks, who am I to recommend it? You have someone in your life, whom you care about.”

 

He noted that her expression softened at that. “Yeah,” she admitted grudgingly. Her ears were turning red.

 

“If that doesn’t help you, I’m not sure what will.” He closed the file on his desk.

 

“Love cures everything?” she asked sarcastically.

 

“No, but it helps a lot.” He studied her thoughtfully. “I think you’re fine, and fit for duty. My report will reflect that. But there is one thing you must promise me.”

 

“What?” Janice glared at him suspiciously.

 

“If the dreams persist, please come back and talk with me. All right?”

 

She frowned, but nodded.

 

*****

 

That someone in Janice’s life whom she cared about was sitting on a park bench in front of the hospital, her shoulders hunched against the cold, her tall figure bundled in a big black coat and her face half-burrowed within its deep collar.

 

Janice laughed incredulously at the sight of her. “What the hell are you doing out here? I thought you were gonna wait for me at your office.”

 

Reluctantly, Mel wriggled her face from the wool cocoon of the coat. “I don’t know, I just felt like meeting you here.”

 

“You felt like sitting outside freezing your ass off, like a fool?”

 

“I can’t help that, because of my background, I frequently misjudge the harshness of winter weather,” the Southerner replied in a tone almost as frigid as the air.

 

 _You were worried about me._ The thought struck Janice suddenly. “I guess we better get you out of the cold, then,” she replied gently.

 

Mel jumped up, as if Janice’s voice had triggered an ejector button for the park bench. “Good!”

 

The archaeologist surreptitiously scanned their surroundings. The park surrounding the hospital was more or less deserted, no doubt because of the cold. A lovely, lonely pathway swept off to the side, leading behind the building; if she recalled correctly, the garden back there had some pleasantly secluded spots. “C’mon, I know how we can warm you up real quick.” She slid her bare hand into Mel’s gloved one. They fell into a brisk walk.

 

“Where are we going?” asked Mel.

 

“We’re just gonna look at the garden in the back. Way, _way_ in the back.”

 

“That’s not going to get me warm—“ Mel broke off abruptly as comprehension dawned on her. “Oh.”

 

Janice chuckled, then squeezed her hand. “You’re cute when you’re dense.”

 

“I must be cute a lot then,” Mel responded morosely.

 

“Nope. You’re beautiful a lot, that’s what you really are. Smart and beautiful.”

 

“Oh.” Mel repeated. Her stomach fluttered nervously; she could not imagine “screwing around in broad friggin’ daylight” (as Janice termed it) with anyone else; she never would have entertained the idea before. She felt so giddy that she almost couldn’t think straight. But the dour brick hospital loomed over them, and she recalled the reason they were there, the reason she had sat in the cold for almost an hour. “Janice, you didn’t tell me—“

 

“Hmm?” Janice was walking faster now, slightly ahead of her.

 

“W-what did the doctor say? Are you okay?”

 

“Huh? Oh yeah, the leg. There’s gangrene. It’s got to go.”

 

Like a horse in front of fire, Mel careened to a sudden halt, and Janice, tethered to her hand, stumbled backward, laughing. “That’s not funny,” the translator growled at her small companion.

 

“Yes, it is. Mel, you’ve _seen_ the wound yourself, you know it looks fine. And that’s what the doc said.”

 

“And everything else is okay?”

 

Janice sighed in exasperation. “Yes.”

 

Mel retained her somber expression. “Really?” she asked quietly.

 

Language sat congealed and useless in the back of Janice’s throat. “Yeah,” she managed. “Really.” And it was, at least here, in the reality of this world. The dreams were another matter, another realm entirely. Janice used to pity people who never dreamed in color; now she envied them. But the lurid tones of those dreams and visions were nothing to her right now, nothing compared to the vividness of this monochrome winter—the dull bare trees, their crone-like branches knitted against the gray sky, the muddy brown earth, the translucent tufts of her breath, mingling with Mel’s. _And those eyes, those brilliant blues._ She gulped away the nervousness. “It would take a lot to stop me. You know I’m made of better stuff than that, right?”

 

Mel grinned. “You most certainly are.”

 

“I come from very good stock, right? Royalty, no less—unless you found out something in that scroll, and you’re not telling me about it.” Janice scowled in mock suspicion.

 

“No, darling.” Mel affected a slight bow. “Without a doubt, you are Queen—Queen of the Brats.”

 

“Well, then!” Janice Covington took a deep breath, looked up at the sky, and roared at the world, “Hail to the Queen, baby!”

 


End file.
